Stay
by Bloody Rot
Summary: [COMPLETE] Set just after In The Dark. Angel plays 'Lets Beat Spike Into Submission'...Not so much with the 'beat'. Emphasis on the 'Spike'.
1. The Land Of Dreams

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A/N:** I might add more to this, I might not. Depends if anyone wants more. It's not really slash…slashy undertones, of course (how could I not?), but I'm not much of a romantic. It's meant to be set just after In The Dark…so review, if you will. If you don' t then I'll just proceed to glare at you. [Glares] 

**Disclaimer:** Joss, o'course. And William Blake… 

**Stay**

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** Angel's POV**

I could tell you what I was thinking, but you probably wouldn't understand. He was just sitting there, puffing away on a cigarette, his pale skin and white blonde hair glowing in the darkness. Just sitting there, inhaling and exhaling and I watched the smoke escape his nostrils. He looked down on his luck.

And every moment I stood there and watched him, I felt a sting in my not-quite-healed wounds, still angry from the hot pokers.

My boy; my silly, little boy just sitting there and puffing away at his cigarettes, as if it had never happened. He was still here; still in my city and still feeding off of my people. My stubborn, stupid, little, naughty boy.

"Spike."

He turned his sulky blue eyes on me, his lower lip slightly protruding in an unconscious pout.

"Peaches," he returned.

"Why are you still here?" My voice was soft, calm, and controlled, but inside I was furious. I wanted to beat him – tie him up and strap him with my belt. I wanted him to be in so much pain that he'd cry and beg and plead for me to stop. I wanted to sink my fangs into his neck and drain him until he couldn't feel anymore.

"Not ready to go back home." He studied my face, an all too familiar smirk gracing his lips, but I saw his hands shake and I knew he was just drowning in trepidation. "What do you want, Angelus?"

It was my turn to smirk and I think he knew that he wasn't going to get a response because he quickly got to his feet and backed up against a wall, slowly inching away.

"Came here to punish me, did you?" he asked.

The air was satiated with the scent of his fear.

I lunged and grabbed his throat, effectively pinning him to the wall. Leaned in real close and heaved unnecessary, heavy breaths onto his neck.

"What in the bloody hell are you gonna do to me?"

Remains to be seen, doesn't it?

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**Spike's POV**

I woke up in a comfortable bed, feeling sticky and wet and tired.

It took a few minutes to realize why, and only then because it's kind of hard to miss giant red stains on white sheets. Bloody hell.

I managed to maneuver myself up against the headboard, ignoring the screams of agony belted out by the welts all over my back. He had left me untied, probably certain that I wouldn't be able to get too far. Kills me to say it, but the poof was right.

It was impossible to quell the feeling of cold dread that lingered inside of me; the old man still had it in him, and that was terrifying. Lord knows what the wanker wanted to do to me next.

"I see you're awake."

I bit down hard on my already bloody lip to keep from screaming like a nancyboy. He had been there, sitting on a chair by the bed and watching me the whole soddin' time and I had failed to notice. I really should be more observant.

"Yeah," I croaked, and I couldn't help but wince at how pathetic I sounded. So I straightened as much as I could without crying and solidly demanded, "What of it?"

"How are you feeling?"

Well, that was unexpected.

"Like someone tried to beat the bleedin' hell outta me," I snapped. "How do you think I'm feeling?"

He chuckled softly. "I hadn't quite aimed that high," he told me. "No one can beat the hell out of you, William."

"Don't call me that," I snarled.

"I'll call you whatever I want," he replied smoothly, getting to his feet and settling down on the other side of the bed. I fruitlessly tried to move away, but he grabbed my arm and I went stock-still. "You're mine."

Had it not been so, I would have vehemently denied it. But it was true. It's always been true. My sire is the bedpost and the blood that he's passed down to me is the pair of unbreakable handcuffs. I will forever and always be chained to him, unable and not wanting to completely escape.

He eased me down onto my stomach and got up. I heard him rummage around and a few minutes later, I felt a cool, wet cloth tenderly dabbing at the wounds on my back. The wanker was fixing me.

What in the bloody hell is going on?

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**Angel's POV**

My boy was falling asleep under my ministrations. Once in a while, I'd hear him purr in relaxation and every so often, he'd stiffen as if he were doubtful of my intentions. I don't blame him – he didn't know my intentions.

In fact, I had no intentions in mind. He was staying, though.

I was going to make him stay.

"Awake, awake my little boy!" I murmured. "Thou wast thy Mother's only joy; Why dost thy weep in thy gentle sleep? Awake! Thy father does thee keep."

Spike snorted, recognizing the poem instantly.

"O, what land is the land of Dreams?" he moaned. "What are its mountains and what are its streams?" He hesitated, and I remained silent, willing him to go on as I dabbed some dried blood away. A moment later, he continued, "Oh Father, I saw my Mother there. Among the lilies by waters fair."

It was still his turn. When he was a fledgling, I used to read him poetry by William Blake. The shred of compassion Angelus possessed was always aimed at his childeren, and I can't help the feeling of possession that rages through me when I see them to this day.

"Among the lambs, clothed in white," his voice was little more than a whisper. "She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight. I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn; Oh! When shall I again return?"

I knew he took secret delight in reciting the poetry with me. He was my little poet. My little Will. Always would be.

"Dear Child, I also by pleasant streams have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams; but though calm and warm the waters wide, I could not get to the other side," I replied quietly as he rolled over, and much to my surprise, rested his head in my lap. Old habits die hard, and I planted my hand in his hair and raked my fingers along in what I believe was a soothing fashion.

"Father, oh father," he mumbled, eyes closed. "What do we here in this land of unbelief and fear? The Land of Dreams is better far, above the light of the Morning Star."

From the mouths of babes…

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**Spike's POV**

I found myself alone when I woke up the second time, but I could hear him and Cordelia and the mick trotting about upstairs. A large part of me told me to run, but that little nagging, nancyboy in my head told me I wanted to stay. I carefully hefted myself up and was surprised to find that I hardly hurt at all.

"Shirt…where's a shirt…" I muttered, looking around for my black t-shirt. My leather duster, thank god, was laid over a chair, but my shirt was nowhere to be found. Peaches had most likely ripped it up anyway.

I settled for going through his closet and pulling on one of his pooftastic white sweaters; which, by the way, were much too large for me.

Taking in a deep, unnecessary breath, I walked up the stairs to go meet my fate.

"Hey, Bleach Boy," Cordelia deadpanned. "Love the sweater."

I smirked. The little chit was gorgeous and despite her moments of stupidity, her bluntness and lack of tact never ceased to amuse me.

"Once again, love the hair," I replied, raising an eyebrow at the large chocolate waves on her head.

After a decently long staring contest, I could tell she was getting a little antsy with having me around. This was confirmed when she yelled at the top of her lungs, "ANGEL! YOUR LITTLE BRAT'S AWAKE!" which brought Angel bursting out of his office with the little mick in tow.

"'Ello, Peaches," I grinned.

"You're wearing my sweater."

"Couldn't find my shirt."

"I destroyed it," he admitted. "You know Doyle?" He gestured towards the mick and I gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

"Ey, mate," I smirked.

"Hello, Blondie."

I should be draining these people dry. Not standing here making small talk.

However, the look on me old sire's face is not to be toyed with. He'll do it again. He'll thrash me again and most likely he'll do it harder. So I sit down at the edge of Cordelia's desk like a good little boy and listen to them talk about nonsense things. Its not that I'm some puppy on a leash though, got that? It's just because…well, I'm not hungry. So sod off.

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	2. In Which Cordelia is Better than Donuts

**A/N:** Boy, oh boy...is this ever an overdone plot. Angel catches Spike. Angel beats Spike into submission...mmmm...Angel beating Spike into submission. Pretty visual. Anyway, hope it won't bore you too much. I'll try to make it interesting. Reviewwwww. For the love of GOD, review! ::hugs all earlier reviewers:: 

** Stay**

**Chapter Two**

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**Spike's POV**

When I get bored, I get destructive. It comes with the territory, y'know? I'm a vampire, and as such, it's my instinct to cause carnage and ruin wherever I happen to go. Kills me to just sit around and watch Detective Peaches and his insipid droogs laugh over coffee and donuts and a mug o' warm blood. Makes me wanna go grrrrr and fly at 'em all fists an' fangs and malicious intent…

"Spike, stop tapping your foot. There's going to be a hole in the floor and then we'll never get any clients and if I don't get paid, you're going down, Blood Breath!"

That Cordelia certainly knows how to control her oxygen intake if she can put that many words into one bloody sentence without taking a single breath. I'm glad my mind knows no limits…

"Can I have a donut?" I sighed, bringing my leg underneath me as to remove the temptation. Not that I cared that I was annoying the silly bint, but the mick was shooting the poof this look that screamed "stake him now", and I'm pretty sure Angel likes both of them more than he likes me.

Speaking of the poof, will you look at that hair? I'm almost ashamed to call him my sire. Well, he's not REALLY my sire, but he did train me and I guess that's what counts these days and ages. Dru really couldn't gimme the time of day - she was too busy lookin' at all those soddin' stars. She had better conversations with them than she did with me for God's sake.

Stupid Dru and her dark hair and her Dark Queen eyes and her stupid Miss. Edith. I hope she's alone right now. Alone and sad and cryin' with no one left to torture her.

Oh, baby…why did you leave me?

"No, Spike."

"Why not?"

"The last thing we need is Mr. I Have ADHD So I'm Going To Kill You All For Fun And Play In Your Blood on a sugar high," said Cordelia, pointedly closing the pink box of delicious donuts so they were out of sight. "And just so you know, they were jelly-filled."

"I like custard," I pouted, slouching down in my seat and folding my arms over my chest. You see, this works. You can't tell me it doesn't. Peaches is going to give in any second…

"God, what are you? Five?"

Just give it another mo'…he's lookin' real sympathetic and soulful…

"Cordelia…"

OI! Here it comes!

"Yes, Angel?"

"Can _I_ have a donut?"

Despite how rash and impulsive I am, I maintained enough self-control at that moment to not launch myself off the sofa and rip his throat out. Instead, I sulked more. I've become good at sulking since Dru left…well, I've always been good at sulking, but I've gotten even better.

I watched as my ridiculously good-hearted sire picked out the only custard donut and shoved it into his mouth, keeping eye contact with me the whole bleedin' time.

Doyle snorted, but had the decency to hide his laughter behind his hand. I have the feelin' the man drinks like a fish. Maybe one day before I nobly and savagely tear my fangs into his neck and drain him of all his life force, we can go drinking together. That could be a good spot of fun, right there.

For some reason, the poof never ceases to surprise me. After the initial bite and the ridicule that followed, he gave me his slobbery leftovers, which consisted of pretty much all of the donut and 100% of the nummy custard filling. After a right good glare at Mr. I Have Froofy Hair, I greedily inhaled the treat; and for Cordelia's benefit only, I noisily and disgustingly sucked all of the remaining sweetness from my fingers.

"Ew."

I flashed her a smile.

"Jus' for you, Milady."

She wrinkled her nose in apparent revulsion, but you just know I'd charmed her knickers off.

There's a problem with custard-filled donuts: they aren't exactly what vampires consider a meal. This was confirmed when my stomach gave an absurd rumble – like thunder, really. My stomach's just like a big beastie that doesn't know its place and really doesn't want to know and wouldn't care if it did know. Just like me.

"M' hungry," I announced, giving my sire the most demanding look I could muster, which was pretty bloody demanding. Being a master vampire makes it most important to acquire a line of authoritative facial expressions – I think I'm most accomplished in this area.

"You just ate a donut," the mick pointed out.

Authority fled from my face to be replaced by childish indignance. I can't help this. I'm rash and impulsive and I've been told that I'm an eternal teenager, but I've killed anyone who's been stupid enough to tell me that to my face.

"M' a vampire!" I reminded him…and despite all of my thoughts about being a vampire, this suddenly brought me to a revelation: I. Am. A. Vampire. "Hey, wait a second…yeah." And with that, I got up and turned a mouthful of fangs on the fair Cordelia, who screamed and threw a fistful of pens at me.

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**Angel's POV**

I couldn't believe that he was about to eat Cordelia. Not that I had started to trust him or anything – he's a brutal killer, but he had just been sitting there like a bored kid hungry for a donut. Then he was about to sink his fangs into her tan, pretty little neck and who could blame him? All that luscious, sweet, red, warm blood just pumping beneath that perfectly maintained, soft, smooth skin…

Wait a second. BAD ANGEL.

_Note to self: do not think about friends as if they were tasty morsels._

"Angel, if he's goin' ta go all kill-happy on us, I don' think it's a smart idea ta keep 'im around…" Doyle said as gently as he could. And I knew just what he was implying.

Stake Spike. Get rid of the problem. I couldn't do that.

"I can't do that."

I couldn't. I just couldn't. Couldn't, couldn't, couldn't…_wouldn't_.

Most importantly, I _wouldn't_.

I won't.

I can't.

We were downstairs, in my apartment. Spike was on my bed, manacled around the ankles, bare-chested and beaten and unconscious. His lips were dry, cracked, and bloody and there was a purple bruise on his pretty cheek. My childe. My beautiful, bruised boy.

He's caught in a tangle of burgundy sheets – freshly changed after the earlier blood-spilling hijinks. With a sigh, I settle myself next to him and smooth them out and out of old habit, tuck him in. I'm not really in the mood to care if I'm staining more sheets. I'm staining them. Not him. I made him bloody. He bloodies the sheets. It's the way it's meant to be: the chain and tradition of sire and childe that has been followed for centuries. Sire beats childe. Childe bloodies sheets. Sire doesn't care because he's gone soft…

Stupid soul.

"Angel, he tried to _eat_ me." Cordelia just couldn't seem to stress that enough.

"That means he likes you," I told her and it sounded, even to me, like I was talking to a dimwitted child. "He didn't mean anything by it."

"Angel!" This time, she smacked my arm. Hard. It actually kind of hurt. "I know that he's your…childe, or whatever. But you can't risk our lives this way. He's evil, Angel. He's not like you. He doesn't have a soul. And furthermore, you don't pay me enough to let that little bastard suck on my neck!"

It was true enough. I couldn't let him hurt Cordelia. Or Doyle. They were my friends. But I couldn't let him go off hunting people, either. That would be taking quite a few steps back. I would be destroying the mission if I housed a murderous, ravenous vampire.

But he had to stay. He needed to stay. I needed him to stay.

So stay he will. I just won't let him feed off of humans. He's my childe, he'll do as I say. He'll know his place by the time I'm through.

Aww…he's mumbling in his sleep.

How cute.

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**TBC…REVIEW!!!!!**


	3. See Spike Run

**Author's Notes: **I think it's pretty clear that I have no life...as I just updated yesterday. Oh well, forgive me. This chapter is less than amazing, but I have to take the exact same path as everybody else in existence and let Spike become chipped, so it was necessary. It's not like that was giving anything away...

Anyway, thank you to my lovely, lovely reviewers who I ((**3**)) in a most inappropriate fashion. Thank you for reading and please review again.

**Stay **

**Chapter Three**

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**Spike's POV**

It hurts a lot. Worse than last time, even.

And he's not recitin' the poetry, or anything fuzzy like that. He's not tending to my wounds with a warm cloth. He's bloody lecturing me about my behavior and how it's going to change because he's my sire and he says so and that's the way its going to be because he gels his hair and can't shag and he's a big, simpering nonce.

"I want you to get it into your head that this office is not a restaurant," the pillock said, crossing his arms and towering over me like some bloody headmaster at some poncy school. "Cordelia is not and never will be on the menu."

"How 'bout the mick?" That earned me a right harsh slap across the face.

"He's half demon. You wouldn't want him anyway." The words were friendly enough, but the tone! Oh, the tone! He used the "I'm your master, you're my slave; I'm your sire, you're my childe; I'm your god, and you are dirt" tone of voice. Then he glared at me with such intensity that I felt like I could do nothing but lower my eyes and then I realized that I was submitting, which made me want to leap up and stab those bleedin' eyes out of his bloody skull. But I didn't…because I was submitting.

One day, the poof's going to get his…and I'm goin' to be there…dealing it out…I hope.

"You'll live off of animal blood…like me. You're not to leave the office without me. You will no longer trade insults with Cordelia and Doyle, but rather you will show them the proper respect and do everything you can to get into their good graces-"

"Like bloody hell I will!"

That was too much. Paying respects to humans? Did someone completely remove this bloke's knackers or is he really just this bloody pathetic? No…I wasn't going to stick around for this.

I felt his hand grip the back of my neck and all of a sudden, I was being forced to look into that hard gaze. It was disconcerting really…having those brown orbs bore into you like hot…pokers. Ah, hell. I did torture him. And torturing your sire? Big shame shame in the vampire community. If he weren't such a black sheep, this would be a lot worse.

"You. Will."

It was a growl… really deep in the throat; and for a minute I saw his lips curl and I winced because I was expecting a snarl and then maybe a not so playful nip on the neck and perhaps a few more lashes on my back…but it didn't come.

I lowered my gaze again. Best to do as he wished for now. I'd make my escape later.

"Yes, Sire."

He looked so satisfied that I wanted to rip the skin away from his face, but that's kind of hard when you're in so much pain that you can barely move.

The next thing I knew, he was sitting next to me. I was gently laid out on my stomach and…he was licking me? Bloody Hell. Peaches was lapping the blood from my back like a dog would lap water from a dish. This would make me the dish and him the dog and my blood the water and I don't really think I like being a bloody dish so much…but it does feel kind of good.

It's his saliva and like his blood, it has healing properties, so I guess this is his new way of tending to my wounds as opposed to the human way with the warm cloth an' all. Can't say which I'm more comfortable with, but I guess this does kind of mean that he cares and I s'pose that makes me feel all warm and cuddly and…

Bugger this. I'm leaving.

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**Angel's POV**

I walked back up to the office whistling a jaunty tune. I was dead certain that I had made some sort of positive progress concerning my childe- what with the lowering of the eyes and the addressing me as "Sire". Yes, my Will was back on the right path to being…my Will. My pretty, little, trouble-making leech.

"How is he?" Cordelia asked and at my odd look, added, "Pretend I care."

"Docile," I replied. "Pretty soon he'll be sleeping like a kitten."

Docile translates to too tired to talk and too hurt to move. My boy was never truly docile and never could be. He's rash and impulsive and lacks the ability to conceive a flawless plot. Add this with his boisterous hyperactivity and you have something truly deadly: you have Spike. White-haired, angry, heinous Spike. Sick, hateful, bloodthirsty Spike. Spike with the very unorthodox ability to feel unconditional love for other beings.

"Angel, if he tries to…" she motioned towards her neck. "…Again…?"

"If I'm not around to help…do what you have to do."

The mere thought of that pained me, but I knew it was more than likely that he would try to eat her again. My boy usually finishes what he starts.

He really is a little idiot.

"What are you smiling about?" Cordelia broke me from my thoughts. "You never smile." She backed away slightly. "Are you evil?" Then, with a small unladylike snort, she rolled her eyes. "Of course you're not."

"Hey! How do you know I'm not?" Cordelia often makes me feel indignant. It's just that matter-of-fact, to-the-point way she says things…kind of makes me feel like an inept dork.

"Angelus is hotter…you know, in an evil way."

"What!?" She can't be serious.

"Well, he has that sexy little maniacal gleam to his eyes. And he puts on more form-fitting pants…I'm not saying you should do that or anything, but it would make this job a little less boring if there was a nice view."

"WHAT." Oh God, I'm seriously disturbed.

She waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, nevermind. Back to my question…what were you smiling about?"

I shrugged and ungracefully flung myself back into a chair. "It's just nice having him back."

She cocked an eyebrow, her eyes slightly wider. "Were you two like…" Then she made this most unseemly, crude gesture that involved her right index finger going through this loop formed my her left index and thumb and I just really don't want to go into that…

"Well…of course." I sunk deeper into the chair and resisted the urge to hide my face in my hands. "But, you know…vampire stuff. It's not like that anymore. It's not going to be like that."

"Since you have a soul?"

"Right."

She did that dismissive thing with her hand again. You know, when you're around a person long enough, the littlest things start to infuriate you.

"Don't know why not. I'd take advantage of that while I had it."

If I had been drinking something, it would have been all over me at that moment.

"Cordelia!"

"What? Oh, c'mon, Angel. He's a little undead hottie and we all know it."

"He tried to eat you!"

"That just means he likes me."

She's trying to punish me.

"You're trying to punish me."

"Yes, Broodboy. Everyone's trying to punish you. Oh, woe is me…how much more guilt can there be? I'm just trying to understand what your intentions are. What is he? Your little pet vampire?"

"He's not a pet! He has feelings and emotions and-"

"Animals are people, too."

"No they aren't!" Conversations with Cordelia were probably the most exasperating, insufferable things I was doomed to partake in. "I mean…Spike is not an animal and I don't plan on treating him like one. And animals aren't people. People are animals."

"You just said that Spike wasn't an animal."

"He's not. He's a vampire."

"Oh, so all of a sudden, I'm an animal and you're this great thing all on your own?"

"Can we not have this conversation?"

She really looked like she was debating whether to stake me or not. After a moment, she retreated with a sigh. I guess she realized that there would be ramifications to staking the boss…like say, not getting paid.

I heard my precious little hellion padding around downstairs, probably in search of blood. He'd find it in the fridge, I was sure. Drink it all up like a good little boy. Maybe stretch out on the bed and kneed the comforter like a restless little kitten…

Okay, maybe an _itsy bitsy_ part of me thought of him as a pet…

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**Spike's POV**

Right. I'm out of here then. Already snatched a spare bag and shoved a couple of the poof's black wifebeaters in there. I couldn't very well be forced to stay somewhere for two days and not go looting when the opportunity presented itself. That would be extremely uncharacteristic and possibly even blasphemous. Speaking of which…blood. That would be important.

I walked over to the fridge with the full intention of robbing the poof of all his blood when it hit me that that was completely idiotic.

Food is humans. Not packaged pig's blood from the bloody butchers. I'd get me some takeout on the way out of this soddin' city…maybe stop by one of those cast parties and get some glamorous chit all dolled up, just filled from head to toe with sweet, warm blood. Yeah…that sounded brilliant.

This grand escape relied on luck. I wasn't exactly up to me full strength and I was walking with a bit of a limp. Not much to worry about, really. I'd just be slow getting through the sewers so the poof would have to restrain himself from coming down to check on me within the half hour.

Silly sire. Thinking he could contain the Big Bad. I'm like a deadly virus, I am. A deadly virus just waiting to be unleashed and start with the killin'.

Right. Enough of that.

Can't wait to get back to Sunnyhell. Gonna maim and torture Slutty the Vampire Slayer and then I think I'll burn the little town to the ground. Not much use to me, after all…and there are better places to be. Just don't like leavin' things unattended.

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**Angel's POV**

I inched towards the elevator. Sometimes I wonder why I even have an elevator. The stairs are quicker and much more effective, but its just kind of cool to have an elevator, I guess.

"Going to check on him…_again_?" Cordelia sounded most exasperated.

"Yeah."

"Well…give him another 'We don't eat Cordy' talk," she told me. "I want you to say it so many times that he actually starts to understand that eating Cordy is _wrong_."

"I'll try," I promise. Even though Spike will never understand that eating Cordelia is wrong. He's a predator, after all. Eating Cordelia is in his nature. And who could blame him?

…No, I will not start this again.

"You bet you'll try."

So I got onto my cranky, old elevator and went downstairs.

He wasn't on the bed. In fact, he was nowhere.

"Spike?" my voice echoed in the empty apartment. "Will?"

He was gone. Oh god, he was gone.

_He's gone he's gone he's gone he's gone he'sgonehe'sgonehe'sgonehe'sgonehe'sgone._

Of course he was gone.

Why would he stay?

"My silks and fine array," I murmured, curling up on the bed. The scent of his blood remained heavy on the sheets and I inhaled it as if it were flowers in a field. "My smiles and languished air…" Brooding, ensouled master vampires who frequently lose their childer are prone to hone their neurosis while reciting William Blake. I know this for I am the only one in existence. "By love are driven away. And mournful lean Despair brings me yew to deck my grave: such end true lovers have."

I wasn't going to take this. I hurled myself off the bed and went on a frantic exploration of the sewers, running and calling out his name like a crazed mother.

All to no avail. He was long gone.

He didn't stay. They never stay.

Better give old Rupert a call.

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**TBC…**

**A/N: **Wasn't it just amazing how easily Spike escaped and how easily Angel just let him? _Celebrates lack of imagination_

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	4. A Pain In Me Gulliver

**A/N:** And to think…I just updated.

**Stay- Chapter Four**

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**Angel's POV**

I'm obsessive and compulsive and I drive people away. He's gone. My precious little bundle of violence got up and limped out and he's never coming back. I called Rupert, of course. He's a good man. Although, he's still a bit peeved about the time that I snapped his girlfriend's neck and left her on his bed for him to find…but I was evil. You know. Evil. The big E-V-I-L. I snap a lot of necks when I lose my soul. It's not like I discriminate or anything…

Except when I directly target my one-time friends.

Growl growl. If I didn't have these cases to work on, I don't know how I would keep myself occupied. Cordelia keeps making this awful coffee and then just leaving it in the pot and I keep going back to it thinking its all fresh and stuff, but its really just that same coffee from a really long time ago and I drink it and then I spit it out because it's awful and I'm really glad she and Doyle don't know I rant like this to myself because they'd probably find some sort of joy in that and ridicule me for the rest of their lives.

I miss my boy. So much.

At least the crazy stalker guy that could detach his own body parts existed. He got my mind away from Spike and made me realize a few things about myself. The jealousy, the rage, the lust, the need for an emotional connection that just doesn't exist…

I've been alone for so long. I really should be used to it by now.

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**Spike's POV**

Ah, Sunnyhell. How I'd missed you.

I was standing on a hill overlooking the graveyard and the slayer, that itty bitty blonde wisp of a bint, was happily and noisily beating the bleedin' hell out of this fanged fellow. What really got me was that every so often the little bitch would somehow manage to pause in the middle of the violence and make one of her trademark quips before wailing on the poor bugger again.

I. Hate. Her. So. Much.

If it weren't such an inopportune moment, I'd race down there myself, rip every shred of skin from her body, and bathe in her blood.

Stupid slayer…I don't know why Peaches was so head over heels for her; she's hardly more than skin and bones! Silly poof always did have it in for blondes, though. Take Darla for example. Darla, the biggest fucking bitch of all time…but she was blonde and he stayed with her for over a century. It's always with the hair with that soddin' tosser. You'd think he'd be a bit less vain with his lack of a reflection and all…

I kept thinking about how he'd taken care of me, though, and part of me missed him. Granted he gave me the bloody wounds in the first place, but still. A bloke likes to be mothered every once in while. Old boy used to do it a lot back in the early days…pre-poncy soul, that is. Used to flay me till my skin was fallin' off, but he'd always take right good care of me afterwards. Darla always hated it when he coddled me. M' glad she's dust.

Anyway, about this slayer, it's about time she-

**_BLOODY HELL!_**

* * *

I cracked an eye open to find myself in this white, sterile sort of area. It hurt my head to look at it…it was so bright. It was like passing out in a shady outdoor spot just to wake up with your hand on fire…only all the pain was in my eyes this time; in my head.

Sod it all, who am I kidding? It hurt everywhere. Considering the two nights in a row I had been subjected to the thumping of the Ensouled One and whatever they bleedin' did to me out on that hill, I'd wager that I was lucky to be able to move.

This is all the slayer's fault. I just know it.

Stupid soddin' cunt probably erected this place with the help of her dimwitted sidekicks…"the Scoobies", if you will. Bugger them. Scooby Doo was a classic cartoon of great importance and then they went off and degraded it with their insipid saving of the world antics. Bloody brats. At least they can't rip _my_ face off.

I got to my feet and started pacing around, because that's what I do when I get nervous and have to think of plans of escape.

Why didn't I just stay with my sire? The old sod would probably be mollycoddling me right now, feeding me warmed-up pig's blood and telling me not to drink it too fast, but nooo…now I was bloody well starving in this…this PRISON.

A packet of blood fell out of the ceiling. What luck!

But as I picked it up and was about to rip into it with my teeth…

"Don't drink it. It's drugged."

Could this get any worse? With a frustrated sigh, I threw the teasing blood to the ground and asked, "Uh huh. And who are you, mate?"

"I'm a rat. I'm a lab rat, just like the others. They're gonna kill us, you know."

Fanbloodytastic.

"And how are they going to do that?"

"They starve you. When you're ready to bite your own arm, they shoot out one of those packets. You drink, and the next thing, you're gone. And that's when they do the experiments."

_I want me sire…_

* * *

**Angel's POV**

It felt like it had been years since I had last seen my boy and life just wasn't getting any better. In truth, it had been weeks and I'd had to deal with the most horrible things: like Cordelia deciding it would be perfectly okay to shack up with me while she looked for a new apartment and that goddamn sensitivity stick or what have you.

It's been AWFUL. Completely AWFUL.

I've had so many things on my mind and yet all I care about is what my sweet Will must be doing at this very moment. There had been no sightings of him in Sunnydale as of yet and the apprehension was just building up to the point where I could hardly stand it.

"You okay?"

Cordelia. Always Cordelia.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"Thinking about Spike?"

I sighed. I'm not even going to grace that question with an answer because I know she'll just settle down next to me and yap away even if I clearly don't want her to.

"You know, Angel, I understand a little something about love."

It was difficult to contain my snort and my snarky reply of, "Right….Xander Harris?", but somehow I managed.

"You're always going to go for the wrong sorts of people and you're always going to feel too strongly about them. They'll play along; they might even reciprocate, but it's always going to end badly."

She's got that right.

"And even after it ends badly, even after they put you through pain and destroy your social status and make out with bottled redheads who shop at Sears while you're being heroic and trying to save their loser lives-"

"Cordy…"

She sighed. "Even after all that. After every horrible, horrible thing they put you through, you'll still care." She acts as if I don't know this. "You'll still want them to stay with you. You'll still want to stay with them."

Yeah.

"Buffy sent you to Hell," she continued. I really wish she wouldn't delve into the B-word. "Then again you were like Old Yeller or some crap like that. You know, all sweet and gentle with big fangs, but then you got rabies so she had to go out into the backyard and shoot you and the last thing we remember is you giving this awful squeal-"

"Cordy-"

"What I'm saying is it was her fault. She gave you that awful STD known as evil and then she had to kill you, but you just kept coming back for more. Finally, you got some sense knocked into you or whatever, and came to this sleazy city where you and me and Doyle live happily ever after."

You'd think that I'd defend Buffy right now, but to tell you the truth, I found the "evil STD" remark highly amusing.

"What's your point again?"

"You left Buffy. You let her go. You moved on. You can do it again."

Yeah, it'll just take an eternity.

"It's different with Spike. It's not the same kind of love…I don't even know if you'd call it love." I didn't even realize I was talking, really. It was sort of like speaking my thoughts and Cordelia was there listening and…oh god, am I opening up? I blame the sensitivity stick. "He's not my soul mate. He's not the love of my life…he's not even a natural blonde!" I do have a thing for blondes, after all. "He's always been someone for me to take care of. To lavish affection on…to use as I see fit. He's more than an object, though. I like making him feel good. I like it when he needs me. I need to be needed because it makes me feel like I exist on more of a personal level. I care about him. I worry about him. He's my childe."

"So the entire thing you did with the dominating and all…that was to make him need you?" I nodded. She sighed. "You vampires and your wacky hijinks." She patted my shoulder. "Maybe he'll come back. Maybe he won't. But if he doesn't, just remember the hot pokers and the pedophiliac vampire that touched you all over. Maybe if you get mad enough, you can get over it." She got up and made to leave, but turned suddenly, and with a very Cordelia-like smirk, asked, "And Angel?"

"Yeah?"

"Buffy's not a natural blond, either."

I knew that. I did. I swear.

* * *

**Spike's POV**

You know what? I don't need my sire. I'm the Big Bad and I made it out of that bloody hellhole all by myself…with a little help from that obnoxious rat-like twit- who, incidentally, was a very good distraction while I made my grand escape.

Wanna know what comes next? Your very humble and ingenious narrator makes his way up to the slayer's girly dormitory, rips her entrails out and ties 'em in a pretty little noose, with which he then proceeds to hang her by her pretty little neck. Oh, yes. Much fun will be had by all. Well, by me anyway.

Ah, the door. Perhaps I'll just give it a friendly little knock then.

And sure enough:

"Come in."

It was Red, the little witch who couldn't, and she looked so very surprised to see me. It may not have been the Slayer, but it was still a tasty little treat worth the effort of biting and sucking and…

"Spike? Wh-what do you want? A spell? I can do that."

She _is_ adorable, isn't she?

She pointlessly tried to run past me, but I, of course, grabbed her by the arm and threw her against that dainty little bedside table. Her fear smelled so very…_delectable_.

She'd make a nice companion.

"I'll give you a choice," I smirked, and sidled over to her. "Now, I'm gonna kill you. No choice in that. But I can let you stay dead, or….I can bring you back. To be like me."

Please choose the second…please choose the second… 

"I…I'll scream," she said instead, and I couldn't claim to be surprised.

I smiled. "Bonus."

So she screamed, I turned on the little radio by the bed, threw her down, straddled her, and went in for the nummy treats.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

The most horrible pain I had ever felt hit my head at that moment. It was as if I had been laid out in the middle of a London street, placed perfectly where if I had just stayed perfectly still the cars would just speed over me without a single touch…but then a bloody double decker went all awry and skidded over my fucking head!

Red didn't move. I could hear her panting beneath, though, and I could her heart beating faster, pumping the sweet blood through her little veins. So I leaned in again and-

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

This was too bloody much! All I wanted to do was get back on my own two bloody feet, go to Sunnydale, kill the fucking slayer, and burn the soddin' town to the ground! Is that too much to ask? APPARENTLY. Instead, I get kidnapped by some scientist wankers who do zany experiments on me head and now I can't bite the bloody witch and get a good meal and I'm starving and I want me sire NOW.

I couldn't help it. I started to cry. It was too much.

"Spike?"

I couldn't even reply, I was bawling so hard. It was bloody humiliating to be crying like a nancyboy in front of the enemy, but I wasn't about to stop. I didn't even have the excuse of being drunk off my arse this time and I just continued to do it.

Got to hand to the witch, though. She could've run off like any sane person would do, but she stayed and patted my back and tried to get me to tell her what was the matter.

"I want me sire," I sobbed. "Get me sire."

"Angel?" she sounded confused, but who the hell else would I mean? "You want me to get Angel?"

I nodded, wiping snot away from my nose, and then broke down into a fresh river of tears. It was too much.

"I need me sire."

* * *

**Angel's POV**

I drove to Sunnydale the minute I hung up the phone. Rupert called to tell me that Spike was at his apartment and something was wrong with his head and my poor little boy was sobbing for me to come get him.

My baby. My poor baby.

The two hours it took to drive from L.A. to Sunnydale seemed like a lifetime, even though I sped like a demon and shouted profanities at those who protested with their horns. Nothing was going to stop me from getting to my boy.

Once at Rupert's residence, I burst through the door to find them all sitting around – Rupert, Buffy, Willow, and Xander. They looked up at me in surprise when I entered and frantically looked around.

My boy was curled up in a corner sobbing like I'd never seen him sob before.

"What happened?" I demanded, quickly walking over to him, sitting down, and gathering him into my arms, into my lap. I looked to Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Rupert for an answer, but my face softened when I felt my Will bury his face into my neck.

"We don't know exactly, Angel…" Buffy trailed off, looking at me helplessly.

"What _do_ you know?" I couldn't keep myself from snapping.

Willow cleared her throat and stepped a little closer. "He came into the dorm room and told me he was going to eat me. Then he tried and he screamed and then he tried again and he screamed again and then he started crying and asking for you."

That wasn't very helpful, but I couldn't very well just go around blaming them, could I? I really wanted to. I wanted to blame someone. I wanted to rip someone apart.

"What happened, Will? Tell me what happened," I murmured, rocking him slightly as he cried. "Tell Sire what happened."

He didn't. He wouldn't. He just kept crying.

"Sire," he whimpered. I'd never heard him sound so pathetic.

"Yes, precious. Sire's here."

"Lets…" he choked. "Lets go home."

"Angel…" Rupert trailed off.

"If I find anything out, I'll let you know," I promised, getting to my feet and lifting my boy to his. "Just as I'm sure you will for me." He nodded.

"Siiiire," Will pleaded, a slight whine in his tone. "Can we go?" He clung desperately to my hand and buried his face into my shoulder, careful not to make eye contact with any of these people he had tried to slaughter on so many occasions.

I nodded, giving his little hand a squeeze. And after giving the group a few awkward goodbyes, we got into my car and started the drive home.

Home. I was taking my boy home.

* * *

**TBC…**

**_Review!_**


	5. Was

**A/N: reviewwww**

**Stay**

**Chapter Five**

* * *

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**Spike's POV**

I didn't leave my sire's bed for a week. I shifted sometimes, sure; turned the pillow over when one side became too bothersome, even sat up enough to smooth the sheets out around me so my naked body was completely covered. Peaches would usually sleep in the chair by the bed, saying that he didn't want to crowd me, or some such rubbish. Once in a while, though, he'd sleep beside me. He'd toss an arm over me and pull me against his broad chest and I'd whimper like a nancyboy and burrow my nose into his shoulder. It's true that two colds don't make a warm, but it's never closer than when I'm with my sire.

When he was out working, the cheerleader would systematically come down to check on me every hour and a half. It hurt to be near her…to know that she was there and helpless and human, but I couldn't bite her. No, because fangs and food led to great big brainsplittin' pain for yours truly. I'd told them this much while I was sobbing and blubberin' on like a royal ponce. I think she knew it, too, but untrue to her character, she didn't rub it in.

"98.6 degrees," she'd cheerfully proclaim, and I would feel the bed depress as her tiny bit of weight settled next to me. Then she'd uncomplainingly feed me heated up pig's blood from the warm mug and slip in things about how I should get my dead arse out of bed and take a shower because I smelled bad and being depressed never did anyone any good.

It was always the same. Every hour and a half.

Sometimes the mick would come downstairs, too. He wasn't all that bothered by the smell, but you know how micks are. They're Irish, like me sire…only me sire's all girly so he's not dirty like a normal Irishman. Anyway, Doyle would bring me some whiskey occasionally, not at all encouraging me to get up. But he'd set the bottle to my lips so I'd have a good swig and sometimes I'd even say a few words or give a chuckle when he said something about my sire's forehead. He did have quite the forehead, after all.

It wasn't until the night that they all went off to fight the bloody good fight that I got out of bed. I stretched long and hard and yawned and yowled like a fierce jungle cat (if I do say so myself), shakily walked to the bathroom, blasted the water to full heat, and bathed for what seemed like two hours. I rinsed and soaped and soaked until there wasn't a smattering of BO left.

Then I scrubbed me skin raw because it feels better when it hurts. I suppose it would be much like a sunburn when you practically make the water boil to burn the burn out…but I don't much know about sunburns, so that's probably just rubbish and I don't even know what caused me to have such an illogical thought that in no way relates to my situation as a vampire. What I mean to say, is sometimes its better to hurt the hurt out, or at least drown out one hurt with another, such as scrubbing and rubbing my skin until it was red and breaking. At least Cordelia wouldn't talk about how I smelled anymore.

Peaches had girly shampoo that smelled like green tea. I used it three times…washing, rinsing, and repeating.

After my elongated bathing session was over, I pulled on a pair of my sire's huge pants and was about to crawl back into bed when I heard noises from upstairs.

Crying, whimpering…it was the cheerleader. I could hear her small sobs through the ceiling and I heard my sire's quiet voice murmuring despairing comforts. Something had happened. Something bad.

I made the decision to go up and see, thinking if anything, my clean appearance would cheer the three do-gooders up.

But I was wrong.

It was just the two of them, no mick to be seen. Cordelia's pretty face was smeared with mascara and black tear streaks streamed down her tan cheeks. My sire was gnawing on his lower lip; his own eyes wet with unshed tears, his brow furrowed in the daddy of all broods. They looked…defeated.

"What happened?" I asked quietly, taking a few steps closer to my sire so I was at an arm's length. He reached out and touched my face, stroked my cheek with his big thumb and when I took a tiny step forward, he pulled me onto his lap and hugged me so tight it pinched.

"You smell nice," Cordelia sniffled, instead of answering my question. "You got out of bed…and y-you took a b-bath. You don't s-smell like a d-drunken Irish lout on a street corner anymore…" She broke down again.

That was all that really needed to be said. The mick had met his end.

I felt a pang of sympathy. Doyle was a nice sort of bloke and I knew he'd meant a lot to my sire and the cheerleader.

I rested my head on top of Angel's, uncaring as his stiff, gelled hair scratched at my cheek. He held me even tighter in return. He held me so hard his arms started to shake.

My poor sire.

The cheerleader choked on a sob and started to cough, but the tears were streaming faster than ever and her delicate nose was startin' to run, which I never even thought it could do. I reached out and stroked her long hair.

"'S alright, Cordelia," I said awkwardly.

She shook me away. "Ew, don't touch my hair."

I quickly retracted my hand and rested it on my sire's strong arm. Despite her earlier protests, Cordelia moved closer to us.

Bloody hell. First I get this thing done to me head and now I'm getting all with the touchy feelies with these two.

I repressed a sigh. I should have me own show. I'd call it My-So-Called-Unlife and an attractive redheaded bint would play the part of me. I'd kill off the little bitch with the crazy hair, though. She'd be Doyle. It's gotta be true to life. Alcoholics bein' alcoholics, and all. That's life- even if life isn't a craptastic MTV teenaged drama.

People die in real life. Not me, though. I don't die. I'm not a person. I'm a rash, impulsive, 120-something vampire perched on my 240-something sire's knee. I feel like I'm little more than a child.

I feel helpless.

* * *

_A few days later…_

**Angel's POV**

I hate it. I'll never stop hating it.

Staying young. Not growing any older. Not dying.

Watching him die.

"Where do you think you're going?"

I watched as my insolent childe shrugged on his leather duster and felt around for his pack of cigarettes, which I had conveniently disposed of when he had started to smoke in my bed. I enjoyed my sheets ash-free, thank you very much.

"Gonna go buy some cancers, mate."

What a silly little boy I had.

"No you're not."

"I am. Just ask me. 'M standin' right here."

I growled. He cocked an eyebrow in return and started moving for the door. I snarled, leapt up, and shoved him none-too-gently onto the bed.

"'Ey!"

"No. You're. Not." It was my right to use Sire voice when he got like this. It was for his own good, anyway. What if he got kidnapped and got something else stashed into that little head of his? What if he got mugged? What if he sacrificed himself to save a clan of half-breeds from the fascist demon order known as the Scourge?

"Why not?" he snapped, jutting out his chin in that defiant way he had.

"It's too dangerous."

"'M a vampire!"

"A handicapped vampire," I shot back, but instantly regretted it when I saw the hurt look in his eyes. Though, some of the guilt washed away when I heard him call me a 'berk' under his breath.

"'M not your bun and 'm not in your oven."

I refuse to acknowledge that comment.

"Will," I started in a softer, more controlled voice. "I don't want you going out on your own yet. Something might happen to you. If you were to run into trouble, you wouldn't be able to defend yourself and you might get hurt or…or…"

"This a repercussion of Doyle coppin' it?" I felt my throat constrict. "Just because your mate died doesn't mean I should be punished."

"It's not punishment, it's-"

"You takin' care of me?" he snorted.

"Well…yeah." It was after all.

"Well, can you take care of me outside? Y'know…on the way to buyin' a pack of smokes?"

At least it wasn't an argument. Did you see that? He's learned to compromise! My sweet, sweet Will…my good little-

* * *

**Spike's POV**

I couldn't see my sire anywhere. One moment he was by my side, the next he was caught in the crowd of people millin' about on the promenade. Maybe I should go look for him…

I smirked, shrugged to myself, and shoved a smoke between my lips. The longer I got to stay away from Commander of the Brood, the longer my freedom was intact. I would take advantage of this time outside, by myself, while I had it.

"William the Bloody," a low voice growled next to my ear.

I jumped, surprised, and whirled around to see a prim, young man clad in dirty leather.

"'S me," I said uncertainly. "Who're you?"

He raised his nose like a snooty lil' aristocrat and smoothed out his jacket. "The name's Wesley Wyndham-Price. I'm a rogue demon hunter."

A right trainspotter this one was.

"And…?"

"And I'm going to kill you."

Ah. He was going to kill me…where was my sire?

"You don't want to do that, mate. I'm neutered."

"Neutered?"

"Yeah, can't hurt a fly anymore, much less kill a human." He looked rather taken aback, so I took that as a good sign and offered him a fag. "Smoke?"

He blinked in surprise, and then waved the offer away. "N-no…I'm trying to quit. Terrible for the lungs, you know."

I smirked. "I know."

We stood in awkward silence for quite some time. Such a long time that I started to paw at the ground with my toe and he began to whistle.

"So…" I tried.

"So…" he tried, too.

"WILLIAM."

Uh oh.

"Where on EARTH have you been? I've been looking everywhere, and I tried to sniff you out but there were too many people and too many of them had cigarettes and-" he stopped abruptly when he noticed Wesley. "Wesley?"

"Angel?"

"Spike?" I added for good measure. That's when he did the most embarrassing thing possible: he picked up my hand and slapped it as if I were five years old. He could have at least punched me! That would have been far less humiliating. "Ow!" But bugger, it _hurt_.

"Don't go running off again." He then turned back to Wesley. I guess they're old acquaintances or something. I never met this bloke before. Seemed like a nice enough chap, though. I'd probably bite him if I could. Seemed kinda virginal to me. Mmm…virgin blood…

"WILLIAM."

I snapped out of my reverie and realized that I was about fifteen feet away from my sire, and about as close to this honey-blond, fourteen-year-old girl that I could get without having the coppers called on me.

"Oops…sorry," I apologized lamely, giving her a quick grin when I realized that she was gazing at me with unabated admiration. I quickly walked back over to my sire and groaned when he grabbed my hand and didn't let go. "Siiiire…."

"If I can't trust you not to stray away, I'm holding onto you." I pouted. He growled. "And that's not going to work."

'Course it wasn't. Bleedin' poof.

"'M hungry." It occurred to me then that I was whining like a child and he was treating me like a child and this was just no good. However, I was going to milk it all for it was worth. Maybe if he got aggravated enough, he'd HOPE that I'd get killed and let me go out by myself at night.

"We'll go home soon."

"'M hungry now."

"Perhaps you should go home and feed him, Angel," Wesley said, inching away a bit. I grinned at him. At least he was afraid.

"Don't worry. He can't hurt you."

I growled. The insensitive prat….

He shushed me and stroked my hand with his thumb. Grudgingly, I calmed down.

He and Pierce Brosnan Jr. yammered on for a few more minutes, exchanging phone numbers and addresses and such before finally giving awkward goodbyes.

"Finally," I huffed.

"He's an old acquaintance," Peaches tried to explain.

"Don't care. Hungry."

I didn't care. There was no reason to care. I had no doubt I'd be seeing the stuffy little berk all the time and that just destroyed the mystery of it all.

"He was a watcher," the poof offered.

"Explains why he wanted to kill me."

"He wanted to kill you?" My sire sounded alarmed.

"Well, he did. Then I told him I was harmless and he didn't care. Then I offered 'im a fag, but he said he was trying to quit like we were schoolboys or some such. Bloke's got an inferiority complex. Take care of his feelings."

My sire was quiet for a bit. Then he said, "I'll never understand how you can take that much from a person just from a brief encounter."

I shrugged. "Know the enemy. It's why I was the best."

_Was._

I chewed my lip and lowered my eyes to the ground.

My sire squeezed my hand.

_Was._

Past tense. History. Dead.

_Was._

I _was_ the Big Bad. Doyle _was_ alive. Things change. Time changes.

_Was._

We went home.

* * *

**TBC…**


	6. Free Puppies

**A/N: Oh, behold...the joy of this chapter.**

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**Stay**

**Chapter Six**

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* * *

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**Angel's POV**

My office is very brown. Old, too. Cheap. That's why I rented it – because it's cheap. I've never really been a big spender. Cordelia describes me as "tight with a buck", and I suppose she's right. I just don't see how spending money is fun, though. The only things I ever purchased were pints of whiskey and nights with whores. I'm not really much of a drinker, anymore…and the sex thing? I'd rather not risk it.

I watched with interest as Cordelia dropped the piles upon piles of shopping bags on my desk.

"Okay," she said, handing me my credit card, which I promptly pocketed. With a sigh, she slumped down in my chair. "That was hell. Going shopping for your little bleached brat? Not an easy task."

"But you love shopping." I mean, honestly, what _else_ would she do?

"I love shopping for _me_," she informed me. "But sometimes I do love the challenge. Would've helped had I just taken him out tonight and made him try stuff on, but he probably wouldn't have been very cooperative, huh?" I shook my head. "That's what I thought. So I went to all the men's stores I could find, but it's hard to find tasteful clothing for a vampire who I've only seen in black and red and, well, your clothes. Those don't count, though, because you and Spike are totally different build-wise. You're huge and he's little."

"I'm huge?" I couldn't help but sound a bit put-off.

"Oh, shut up. You know you look good." I tried to fight my lips from rising, but she ignored me anyway. "So I went around looking for things that would suit _him_ and things _he_ wouldn't mind wearing and that's when I realized, hey! Since when do I, Cordelia Chase, serve to the needs of others? So I took a few artistic liberties and bought some color."

"Did you keep the receipts?" I asked doubtfully.

She snorted. "Of course I kept the receipts. But I demand he wear all of it."

"You didn't waste money on underwear, did you? He doesn't wear it."

"He doesn't?" She looked quite disgusted. "I bought him a few pairs of boxers. He can sleep in them."

"He sleeps naked."

Her mouth made a little 'o' shape. "I see. Well…I don't know. Maybe I'll give them to Wesley if he ever comes by again."

It was quite disturbing to think about Cordelia giving Wesley underwear, but I managed to retain a blank face. Cordelia, however, had no qualms with voicing her own disgust.

"Ew…Wesley and underwear."

Just what I was thinking.

"What's this 'bout the watcher and 'is Eddie Grundies?"

I smiled as my disheveled, fresh-out-of-bed childe padded into the office all bare feet and messy hair, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and trying with all of his might to stifle his yawns.

"Cordelia went shopping for you," I told him. He yawned again, stretched, and raised a suspicious eyebrow at a very smug looking Cordelia.

"Did you now?"

"You bet. And you're going to wear all of it, buster. Don't think I maxed out Angel's credit card for nothing."

Huh?

"What?"

"Nothing, Angel." She dismissed me with her hand…AGAIN. "The fact of the matter is, I bought you awesome clothes and you're going to wear them and you're going to like them." As if realizing for the first time that her tirade really wasn't going to get her anywhere if Spike really, REALLY hated the clothes, she looked around the office with shifty eyes. "…or else."

My boy smirked. "Or else, pet? Or else what?"

"Or else…um…" she looked around frantically, until her eyes finally settled on me and her arm did this spasmodic thing where it jerked up into the air, nudged Spike in the stomach, and swerved in my direction. "Or else Angel will make you."

"Yeah?" he asked, his smirk turning into a grin as he looked to me. "You gonna make me, Sire?" He sidled up to my chair and poked me in the cheek. "You gonna make me?"

After a few moments of his provocation, I finally growled and pulled him onto my lap, reveling in his yelp of surprise. He half-heartedly kicked out and struggled for a few seconds before settling down and asking, "You gonna make me?"

He gave a very un-Spike-like squeal when I scraped my fingers down his side.

"I had no idea he could make that noise," Cordelia mumbled, now more focused on filing her nails that paying attention to us.

"He makes a lot of noises," I told her, then bit my lip when I realized how that sounded.

"More than I needed to know."

My boy sniggered, shifting around so that his head could comfortably rest on my shoulder.

"So, cheerleader, did you buy me anything useful?" He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

"Useful? I'd say clothes are useful. That way you're not walking around naked as the day you were born."

"Wasn't naked. Had on lotsa clothes…came off later, though." He poked me in the chin. "'Member, Sire?"

I grabbed his wrist and slapped his hand, as I had taken to doing recently. He hated it. It was great.

"Okay, first ew," Cordelia broke in. "Second…" she took out a bottle of black nail polish from one of the bags and threw it at my pouting childe. "I believe that's what you were fishing for?"

"Brilliant." His pout turned into a smile. "Thanks."

She rolled her eyes. "I don't know why I indulge you. Black nail polish? So over."

It was strange seeing the two of them banter back and forth without a hint of malice in their voices. It seemed like just yesterday when Spike had been on the verge of snacking on Cordelia when the donut had failed to satisfy him…and now, here he was. My boy. Sitting on my lap, with his pretty little head on my shoulder, smiling mischievously at my friend. And to think, just weeks ago, he'd been all about the rebars through my torso. Now here he was, calm and compliant, his delicate fingers waggling listlessly against my arm. He was just as sweet as cherry-

"Is that an Urban Outfitters bag?" His voice was deadly cold.

"Well…yes," Cordelia said slowly, then realizing the impending danger of her purchases, snatched the bag off the desk before my boy could touch it. "Okay, hear me out-"

"Am I a trendy 10th-grader? No. I'm a bloody _vampire_."

"A vampire who needed new clothes!" Cordelia snapped back. "If we have to see you every day, you're having variation. Right, Angel?"

My boy glared at me as I nodded.

"Variation," I agreed, keeping my tone nonchalant. I looked at the bag in Cordelia's hands with interest. Having no idea what this Urban Outfitters store consisted of, I assumed that the contents would be quite amusing if my childe felt such hatred at the mere idea of it.

"What's in the bag, bint?" he snarled and to his disdain, I slapped his hand again.

"Jeans, Spike. Really nice jeans," Cordelia sighed, holding up a pair of jeans, that while, not very Spike-esque, weren't exactly the bane of his existence, either.

He grunted, but nodded his head approvingly.

"They're alright, I s'pose," he grumbled. "They're not black, though so that's not in my favor." He then pointed at the bag again and said, "There's something else, isn't there?"

Cordelia began to fidget. "Well…yes. There is something else."

"What is it?" he demanded.

"It's um…it's a shirt."

"Right. Show it to me."

I tightened my grip on Spike as I had a bad feeling about this one. He had tensed up, ready to pounce at the thought of the complete abhorrence that was about to reverberate throughout his lithe, little body. The trigger? A T-shirt.

A baby blue T-shirt. A baby blue T-shirt with navy text that read "Free Puppies" in happy, bubbly lettering.

Spike snarled and wrung himself out of my hold.

"You're breakfast, bitch!" he declared, vamping out and launching himself at Cordelia, baring his fangs.

My poor boy and his silly vampiric bravado ended up on the floor, crying at the pain in his head. His breakfast sighed, gave me a grim smile, and patted his peroxide hair in a tired display of forgiveness.

* * *

**Spike's POV**

The hot shower alleviated the remnants of pain that decided to remain in my skull. It pounded down on me, the droplets of hot water did. Made my body all toasty warm on the outside. Inside was my cold, dead heart that didn't really care whether Cordelia lived or died. Inside was the borrowed blood that sustained me, kept me walking and talking and seeing and hearing. Kept me pretty. That's where my sire was.

My sire was in my blood.

Speaking of my sire, he was bloody well furious with my behavior. Told me he wasn't gonna beat me this time, though. Cause why beat me when some cruel bastards already did the job for him? Instead, he settled for sitting in the bathroom while I took my shower, lecturing me from the lid of the toilet seat.

"What are you going to say to Cordelia when you get out of the shower?" he asked.

"'M sorry that you're a stupid little cunt who buys me shirts that demand the freedom of puppies?"

"William."

Wasn't a raised voice. Wasn't really a low one either. It was a rumble, like thunder, at the back of his throat. It echoed in the bathroom and rendered me silent for a moment.

"'Sorry that I tried to bite you, Cordelia. I won't do it again.'"

This was really bleedin' pathetic, this was.

"Because…?" Peaches prompted.

"'Cause I get a big soddin', brainsplittin', mindblowin' world of pain when I so much as try."

"And…?"

Bloody Hell, this wasn't going to stop.

"And you've treated me all kind-like so I should return the favor," I grumbled.

"And…?"

And? AND?!

"And my sire says not to. And what Sire says, goes."

That seemed to satisfy the old boy, as he remained silent for a few more minutes. Then, he asked, "So why'd you do it?"

"Do what now?"

"Try to eat Cordelia. You were getting along so well."

"'M a vampire. She's food." I turned off the shower and stepped out, grabbing the closest towel and patting myself dry. "I don't have a soul like you, Peaches. 'S a bit harder for me to become fond enough of a person to not wanna kill 'em."

"I thought you and Cordelia were in friendship territory."

"I kill my friends, mate."

Angel doesn't have many facial expressions. He broods, he brightens…on rare occasion, he grins. At the moment he was sporting a sad smile and those poofy brown eyes of his looked so…hurt.

I wrapped the towel around my waist, hoisted myself up onto the sink, and stared at him. "'M not gonna kill her," I told him. "Can't, anyway…y'know?" Still lookin' like a kicked puppy (bloody fucking puppies!), he got up, grabbed a different towel, and started to dry my hair.

Ah, yes. I'd missed this. Him tendin' to me like I was some sort of incapable child or invalid or some such. His strong fingers massaging my scalp so gently that my eyes closed and I felt like I could go to sleep just sittin' there. When he stopped, he dropped the towel into the sink and ran his big thumb over my cheek, lookin' at me like a bleedin' mum would look at her newborn baby. A small part of me wanted to stab his eyes out.

He kissed my forehead.

A small part of me took that previous thought back.

"You're gonna wear the shirt," he told me softly.

No, no…a small part of me took back the latter thought about taking the former thought back and a large part of me joined in on the support rally for that thought.

Bloody Hell.

I opened my mouth, but he put a firm finger to my lips.

"Don't argue with me, m'boy," he crooned. "Or I'll really show you a big, soddin', brainsplittin, mindblowin' world of pain."

Oh God.

He pulled his finger from my lips, bent down so we were eyelevel, and asked, "What do you say?"

Bloody Hell.

Trembling. I was trembling. I couldn't stop shaking.

"William?"

Oh God.

I lowered my gaze.

"What do you say, William?"

He lifted my chin with a finger so I met his eyes once again, traced my cheekbone with that thumb of his, and placed his lips to my temple.

I gave in, wrapped my arms around his neck.

"Yes, Sire."

He lifted me with ease into his arms, not at all struggling with my weight as he carried me back into the bedroom where he watched attentively as I put on the much-hated "Free Puppies" T-shirt and a pair of jeans. That done, he took my hand, led me into the elevator and we went upstairs to meet my thousandth humiliation of the month.

I hadn't expected the Watcher to be sitting upstairs with Cordelia.

He looked at me for a moment, clearly amused. I'd like to rip the skin from his body and see how amused he is then…

"Wesley," my sire said, his voice light in greeting. He motioned for me to go sit on the couch. Like a mindless sod, I obeyed. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

The Watcher fidgeted briefly, gathering his wits about. He glanced back at me, and then looked to the cheerleader, and finally returned to Peaches. "Well, Angel…seems we have a bit of a problem on our hands…"

* * *

**A/N:** ::Leaves you there::

**TBC...**

_REVIEW...PLEASE?_


	7. The Daddy Factor

**Author's Notes:** I don't know how I feel about this chapter…I don't think I like it very much. But it's very long and I hope you do because…it's long. Very long. Look how long it is! Anyway, Enjoy.

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**Stay**

**Chapter Seven**

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**Angel's POV**

My childe: soft, smooth, little, lithe, small, pretty, lean, charming, charismatic, wise, lush, empathetic, brilliant, devoted, rude, stupid, rash, impulsive, juvenile, homicidal, hateful, afraid, bad, bad, bad.

He's indescribable when his blonde head is bent and his blue eyes are on his shoe and his shoe is having a scuffle with the dirt on the office floor. I watch as he fidgets, trying to pretend that the three of us aren't in the same room with him. Trying to ignore us. Probably wishing us dead. He most likely never imagined that last twist, where I took him by his hypothetical horns and twisted them into wings. My boy submitted and I just had to put a little threat into my words, a little demon behind the Angel.

Looking at him – at his radioactive, blonde hair and the baby blue shirt tight around his lean form and his pale, pale skin that should have been flushed with embarrassment – looking at him, I wondered what all of that made me.

"Angel?" Wesley asked. "Did you hear me?"

God. What is God? Does God exist? There's Hell, yes. There's lots of Hell. I went there and suffered for hundreds of years and they burned and tortured and raped me because that's what you get in Hell. But God…

No, I mock God.

"Penn," I said softly.

My childer. My precious childer. One I keep warm in the night and the other I abandon in the cold. They always come home to Daddy in the end. To God. God. God. God.

"Penn?" William asks and he's looking right at me with an earnest expression, his blue eyes bright.

Wesley echoes the question and Cordelia just sits there and files her nails and stays silent for once.

Penn, my sweet little Puritan. Kill quickly and carry a sharp set of fangs. Brush your teeth. Knick crosses into their cheeks when you're done. You are God. You are the Dead incarnate. You are the antichrist. You are all that your father never will be.

Just wash your hands afterwards and scrub your fingers individually. Humans are filthy creatures.

"Angel, are you alright?"

Wesley is quite concerned.

"I'm fine," I reassured him. "I have to…undo what I've done."

Regrets, I've had a few… 

_But then again too few to mention_…No no, that one's not true.

"Sire, are you reciting Frank Sinatra lyrics in your head again?"

I snapped my head up to find William smirking and Wesley and Cordelia looking equally amused.

"How did you-?"

"You were mouthing them, Peaches," my wicked little boy sniggered. "Sex Pistols have a much better rendition." At my groan, he protested with, "Aye!" and then proceeded to break into song.

"Spike," Wesley interrupted. "That's absolutely deplorable."

"I second that," Cordelia added, raising a finger in the air. She looked dully at me. "Tell me you punished him."

"He's wearing the shirt."

"Bloody shirt."

"It looks pretty on you," Cordelia told him. "In a highly amusing, embarrassing-for-you kinda way."

"Pack it in, Cheerleader. If it weren't for me bein' broken, you'd be hanging from the ceiling by your entrails right now."

"William," I growled, and much to his displeasure, patted my thigh. He rolled his eyes, whined out my name, crossed his arms, pouted, stomped his Docs on the floor, glared furiously at Cordelia, shot the most challenging look at Wesley imaginable, and finally, realizing that it was of no use, stomped over and perched himself on my knee.

"Why don't you go out and find Penn," he grumbled. "Maybe he'll put up with this. I'm sick of this shite."

Blue eyes flashing, he swung his legs over my lap and buried his face into my shoulder with a cranky little mew. Silly boy.

"I plan on staking Penn."

"'S what Sire does to naughty little boys," my sweet Will huffed into my neck. "'Cept for me, of course."

"Of course," I grunted and he swung his leg so his heel knocked me sharply in the shin. I winced. "Then again, sometimes Sire is very tempted."

"You're a lyin' ponce, that's what you are," my boy informed me.

Wesley, eerily reminiscent of Giles, wiped his glasses with a handkerchief. "Indeed. So the problem at hand…?"

"Me an' Peaches 'ere will go out at sunset," my silly, silly, naïve little sweetness assured him. "We'll take down big brother an' that'll be that." I cleared my throat. He looked at me. My expression must have given all away because he huffed and jumped off of my lap and stomped back over to the couch, away from the rest of us. "Why can't I?"

And for all that it was, I wanted to give into that sulky face.

"You can't fight," I told him bluntly. "That's why you can't. I'd be better off taking Cordelia with me."

Cordelia glared at me, but I ignored it.

"Aye!"

"Having to protect you would bring me at a disadvantage, Will. You know that. You're staying here."

"No. I'm not."

"Yes. You. Are."

I stood up, walked over to him, and towered in what I imagined was an intimidating fashion. He glared at me unwavering, his blue eyes still brimming with a hard defiance that couldn't be forced. I leaned down, grabbed his ear, and whispered low enough so that only he could hear, "You will stay here. You will not argue. You will do as you're told."

"No," he snarled, yanking out of my grip. "If you're gonna kill Penn, I wanna watch. I always wanted to see the wanker burn."

I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't take it. Couldn't take his insolence, or his pouting, or his spoiled demands. Couldn't take it.

I backhanded him across the face.

He didn't make sound. Only looked back up at me with pain in his eyes and a quickly bruising cheek.

"Angel!" Cordelia scolded.

I ignored her, looking out the window. The sun was almost down. Darkness was setting in.

"Wesley, Cordelia…stay here and watch him for me?"

"Of course," Wesley said immediately. Cordelia mumbled her agreement, sounding very put-upon, but I hadn't expected much else.

Will stared at me with empty eyes and when I reached to brush his messy hair, he jerked away.

"And Daddy shall smite me down." The words escaped his pretty pink lips in a whisper and when I tried again to touch, he looked away in disdain.

My little boy might not know his place, but he knows mine. Time to play God again.

* * *

**Spike's POV**

The sod. The bloody fucking sod.

"Spike, would you like something to eat?"

Percy is hovering, every so often touching my shoulder with a gentle hand and speaking soft words of comfort because he knows I'm feeling like shite. He keeps asking me if I want anything and when I shake my head no, he looks around and wipes his forehead free of sweat. If I fidget or make to stand, he gets this look about him- like he's going to hyperventilate or pass out or some such.

The poor nonce is drenched with fear. It's thick in the air.

I know what he's afraid of. Me leaving. Him not fulfilling my sire's wishes. Poor chap's so eager for acceptance he's about to wet his knickers.

"Wesley, I think he's fine," Cordelia called over the top of the recent edition of Cosmo.

"You're not looking all that well, Spike. Are you certain that you don't need anything?" he asked again. "A book? Are you bored?"

"No. 'M fine, Watcher," I mumbled, hoping to satisfy him. "Sit your arse down. You're givin' me a bleedin' headache with all your nervous energy."

We were downstairs now, me on the couch and Cordelia at the table, Percy between us pacing like mad. I was fighting with myself, looking around for a place to escape. Part of me just wanted to give in and go curl up on Sire's bed, dig my head into a pillow, and fall asleep. Most of me, however, wanted to leave and follow the insensitive poof out into battle.

I felt the couch sink as the Watcher sat next to me and then felt it rise up again after a fresh dose of fear drifted to my nose.

"Can't bite you, Percy," I reminded him and I heard him sigh as he returned to his place. I felt stagnant and alone and miserable and all of those things where you've been rendered immobile and you're trapped and you have no bleedin' idea how to get out of this cage that you're stuck in and these people are here watchin' you like prison guards.

The joys of solitary confinement.

This is bloody ridiculous.

"On second thought, you could go into my sire's room and find the book of poems by William Blake."

The bumbling whelp shot to his feet immediately, then realizing that this might be a trick (smart bloke), asked, "William Blake?"

"He reads 'em to me sometimes. Puts me at ease."

"Right then. Stay."

Right then. No.

I watched as he disappeared completely into the bedroom and looked to see Cordelia absorbed in the magazine. Silently, stealthily, I moved toward the stairs.

"Uh uh, mister."

Bollocks.

"I'm getting an apple."

"Like Hell you are. Sit back down."

Bloody cheerleader. Shoulda eaten her over the donut incident.

"I'll be back in a minute," I told her, hopping up the first two steps.

"I'll call Angel!"

"Spike, where are you going?" Percy had returned.

"Getting an apple. Cheerleader's makin' a big fuss."

"Why do you need an apple?"

"Because um…" Apples are upstairs and upstairs has an exit that you can't watch me escape from. "I always eat apples when I read William Blake. 'S tradition, mate. You can't break tradition."

"Well then…I'll get your apple for you."

I took another step up. "Um, no, Watcher. Y'see, it works like this…I get the apple, you warm me up a nice mug a blood so I can dip and enjoy. No sustenance involved without the blood, yeah? It's like coverin' 'em caramel only much _much_ more appetizing. So you do that then…"

"Spike, please…" Wesley took a step closer to the staircase as I took another step up.

I sighed. Sod this.

"Look, Percy. You know I'm gonna run. I know I'm gonna run. So I'm just gonna run already."

"But-"

I scrambled up the stairs, raced into the office, and vaulted myself outside before he could so much as register what was happening.

I ran and ran and ran until I was sure that there was no possible way they could have followed me that far. And then I started to track my sire's scent.

The aroma exuded by my sire was something that always provided me with comfort. My sire. His blood. My home. He smelled like home. It used to be, back in the day that home smelled like biscuits and tea and me mum's deteriorating body. And music. Sounded like music- her sweet, sweet voice singing old melodies till my eyelids drooped.

Then he came along and home wasn't corroding life, but a corpse itself. Cold and firm and masculine and domineering. No more songs to sleep to, just a vampire's purr.

Strangely, it's how I prefer it.

"Why, William, wherever did you get that frumpy shirt?"

I spun around quickly to see Penn, the cocky bastard, grinning up at me so wide it was maniacal. Then I realized what he had said, glanced down at my proclamation to free the puppies, and thanked the hells that I couldn't blush.

I raised my head, jutted out my chin, and clenched my fists. "'S a gift from a lady."

"You have a lady friend, then? No longer with Drusilla, I take it?"

"We're takin' a break."

He laughed then, a very fake laugh. The kind of laugh the higher ups used to have back when I was lad. The kind of laugh that was directed at me.

"Oh, William, I'm sorry."

"Where's Sire?" I snapped. I really just wanted the silly berk to be dusted. I'd been around him less than a minute and he was already gratin' my nerves.

"Angelus?" his smile grew. "I've been waiting for him, too. I wanted to get his opinion on my latest work." He grabbed my wrist and pulled me further into the shadows. Blood. Lots of it. It was a tiny girl, her little head split open on the concrete. Twin puncture wounds in her neck. Little cross on her cheek.

"Poor little thing cracked her head. Nice contrast, though, I think. Her skin is very milky white and smooth, but you can see a hint of pink in there. Rosy cheeks, just like a doll. The red of her blood really sets it out, don't you think?"

I smirked. "I'm guessin' the little chit cracked her head open while runnin' away from you. Otherwise you never would have caught her."

He shoved me against the wall. "Shut up. Angelus will approve."

Now he was just confusing me. Did he have any knowledge of Angel's soul or was he just in denial? I figured that he was making all of these killings to call the old man out, but maybe he had different intentions in mind.

"He'll never really think you're special, y'know," I told him. "I mean…he taught you to do this. You've just been imitatin' him all these years. Do somethin' more original and maybe he'll give you that little pat on the head you've been longin' for. Maybe even a 'good job' and a 'that's my boy' will come into play."

He punched me in the gut. Hard. Bloody bastard.

"Hush now, William. You know not what you say."

"Oh, you arrogant prat. I know exactly what I'm talkin' about. You're just another stupid little bratling begging and pleading and living for Daddy's bloody acceptance. You killed 'im and now you'll never bloody get it. It's your own damn fault."

"Shut. Up."

"No! You stupid fucking ponce! Just get over it, will you? You're a mediocre vampire because you've had one bleedin' plight in mind this entire time. You SUCK."

"You're one to talk, William!"

"I've killed two slayers! I'm a master vampire! You…you're like one of those sorry excuses for artists who copy Starry Night and sell it for an affordable price at Cheap Hacks 'R' Us!"

"Yes, well…" he got right up in my face then and shouted, "Let's see what I can do when I cut off all of your appendages and paste them back together again, shall we?"

"BOYS!"

He spun around and moved to the side, putting our very angry, very mean-looking sire into my direct line of sight.

"What have I told you two about fighting?"

"Angelus," Penn breathed.

I'm. Going. To. Heave.

"Penn, it's not nice to threaten to slice off your brother's arms and legs."

"Technically he's my nephew…" Penn trailed off. "And he started it."

Bloody well right I did. Didn't dare say anything, though. Poof was gonna kill me as it was.

"William, you're in big trouble when we get home."

Yeah yeah yeah. Sing us another.

I watched as his eyes trailed over the surroundings and settled on the little girl. His jaw tightened and he clenched his fists and his eye ticked a bit. Then he looked to big brother, looked him over real good, and said, "This is unacceptable."

The expression on Penn's face? RICH as anything, I'll tell you. His eyes widened and his jaw went slack and he looked like he couldn't decide whether to scream or cry. Then FINALLY something dawned on the wanker and he aimed a punch at our very flowery and soulful sire, which was immediately deflected.

"We were to meet in Paris," Penn huffed, before getting kicked in the face by Peaches.

I settled down next to the little corpse and watched them fight for some time. Angel always had the upper hand of course, as the teacher usually does, so it was all more than a little boring. Eventually, I realized that I was sitting next to a puddle of human blood and after making sure that my sire was preoccupied, I would dip my finger in and suck it clean.

It was cold, but it was human. That's all that I ask.

What I didn't expect was that moment when my eyes were taken away from the fight. What I didn't expect was Penn hauling me to my feet, grabbing me from behind, and locking me into place with his arm around my neck.

"Aye!" I protested.

Bloody Hell.

* * *

**Angel's POV**

Oh god. Oh god.

He's got my baby. He's got my Will.

"Favoritism, Angelus? You wouldn't have looked twice if he had me in this position, but now look at you. Afraid, angry, desperate. All over sweet little William." He smiled wide. "Emotional attachments are weaknesses. You taught me that."

Of course I taught him that. I taught him everything…and now the little bastard was going to best me? It doesn't get much worse than this.

"Would you look at this shirt?" he continued, fingering my boy's much-hated shirt. The shirt I made him wear. That awful, awful shirt. "Such a pretty blue color with such a juvenile message. It makes him look so very young, doesn't it? Even younger than he looked with his long, curly hair. It brings out his eyes, too. You're favorite little boy- Ow!" My boy had stomped on Penn's foot with one of his large boots and in the second that my eldest was taken off-guard, my youngest took him down with a punch to the face and a kick to the groin. Then he brought his leg back and kicked him in the groin again…and again…and again…and…

"Throw me a bloody stake, will you?" he called back to me. After a moment of shaking the surprise away, I obliged, and within another few seconds Penn was dust. William, looking very proud indeed, trotted up to me and leapt into my arms; wrapping his legs around my torso and his arms around my neck. "Did you see me, Sire? I can fight demons!"

I grunted. "Daddy's little demon fighter." Then I started walking to the car, still carrying him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh, shut your gob. Y'know you're proud. I was expectin' a headache after that stomping on the foot bit, but it didn't come! And that's when I knew I could take that wanker…and I did, didn't I? I took 'im down. And did you see how many times I kicked him in the knackers? I shoulda let him live just so he could never use those again. It's all thanks to this shirt, too. If this shirt weren't so bleedin' irritatin', I would have never become mad enough to even try to hurt the tosser. But I did and now he's dust! And now we know I'm capable of a good spot of violence here and there if it involves the right opponents. And…why aren't you talking?"

I glared at him.

"Bloody Hell, you're gonna thrash me aren't you?"

Ah, yes…my clever boy.

"Siiiiire. I only did it to help you. And look what we learned! I'm a Grade A Warrior Against the Forces of Darkness now. I could even hit _you _if I wanted to."

I stopped, gave him a look, and mentally smirked when he turned away.

"Didn't say I was gonna, did I?" He sighed, wriggled away from me, and took a few steps back. "I like my skin on, thank you very much."

I rolled my eyes. When he was afraid of me, he didn't really need verbal responses. It made it all the more amusing.

"I s'pose you can toss me about…just a bit, though. I'm pretty fragile right now, y'know? That was a life or death situation! If you hurt me too much, I might break, yeah? We don't want me in a fit for another week… do we?"

I grinned.

"Siiiiire!"

I took a step toward him, grabbed his hand and pulled him into my arms.

"We'll see," I whispered into his ear. "We'll see." He nuzzled my cheek. I could sense his relief.

I gave him 40 lashes when we got home.

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**TBC…**

I **3** all of you that have reviewed...and if you review again, I'll **3 **you even more. **3333**


	8. Broken Records

**A/N:** A short chapter. Wrote it while I was inebriated, depressed, and rather horny. Wasn't going to post it, but then I decided I liked it. It's good filler. Also, kinky…so that's a plus, isn't it? ponders changing rating

**Stay**

**Chapter Eight**

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**Spike's POV**

I bit my tongue to keep from making noise. I wasn't sure if he still got that same old satisfaction when I screamed like he used to pre-soul, but if he did, I sure as Hell wasn't gonna give it to him. I didn't give it to him. Not ever. Not now.

Silence. Silence was still, unmoving, placid. Silence was something I partook in when I was forced into a stationary existence. Like now. Can't move. Can't ever move.

He wiped my back with the abhorred Free Puppies rubbish shirt, smearing the red around on my skin to make me look dirtier. Angelus had always hated dirt. Hated messes. He kept a clean house with clean childer and clean servants. Angel was equally as anal retentive. Sometimes, however, he liked to clean. Kinda like those vacuum commercials, I suppose. You know the ones. Those craptastic ones with the old chap who looks like a butler and pours dirt all over a pretty white carpet, just to hoover it up again. Makes the vacuum look extremely effective.

My sire liked to spread my blood around on my back so his tongue could be sort of like that vacuum. He liked to clean me up real nice and real effective like. That and he liked more of an area to lick.

"You were a very bad boy," he scolded after trailing his tongue up the back of my neck. "What have you got to say for yourself?"

Silence. Still. Unruffled.

I refuse to flinch, to flutter an eye, to give him any indication that I heard him. He knows I did, though. My sire loves my insolence.

"William…"

Soundless. Stable. Stagnant.

I was a poet once. Once upon a time. I know words. Lots of them, in fact. I used them in love poems for pretty ladies I fancied.

"William, answer me."

I was the laughing stock of my peers, really. Couldn't write a thing. Not a damn thing. Nothing flowed quite right. Nothing meant anything. Meaningless drivel on wasted paper – daydreams of an eternal schoolboy.

I heard my sire growl, clearly irritated by my lack of acknowledgment.

Hushed. Inert. Motionless.

He smacked my arse.

"Oi!"

Well, _that_ I wasn't expecting. I craned my neck around to shoot him a disdainful look; reached behind me and rubbed my assaulted bum.

"Are you going to answer me?" my sire asked, his dark brows raised and his dark eyes demanding.

Peace. Lull. –

"Aye!"

Another one. My sire, ever the tosser. Bloody Hell.

I squirmed in an attempt to move away, but he immediately stilled me, placing one of his large, cold hands on the small of my abused back.

"William."

"Right…what was the question again?"

The bugger spanked me again.

"But I _tried_ that time!" Hard to keep the whine out of my voice when I know it's what he wants to hear the most.

He sighed. "What have you got to say for yourself?" I opened my mouth to reply, but he interrupted. "Think carefully."

Wanker. Ass. Berk.

I try to be mature. I try to take his dealings, his punishments, his rules, and his demands in stride. I can't. I have an inability. I'm bloody unable to just sit around and do as Daddy says. I'm HANDICAPPED. That's what it is…I'm HANDICAPPED. Like that time I was in the wheelchair and couldn't use my legs. Yeah, it's just like that.

I open my mouth to tell him this but he interrupts again, "Think VERY carefully." And I snap my jaw shut and reconsider my thoughts.

Bollocks. Bugger. Sod.

"Okay, I've thought it over…" I said slowly and trailed off uncertainly. He nodded for me to continue, so I just let it loose. "My bleedin' back hurts like you just sheered all of me soddin' skin off because you practically did and I only disobeyed you so I could go out and help you, you stupid ponce. I don't see why such a triumph for me ended in you giving me 40 goddamn lashes with your belt on my bare bloody back and furthermore, I don't see why the minute I try to zone out the pain, you go all school marm on my soddin' bum."

I watch him gather his thoughts. I watch the rainbow of expressions flitter across his handsome face. Then I realize that I want to take it all back.

He spanked me again. Harder.

Oh God, do I want to take it all back.

I gripped the bed linens in my fists as the blows rained down and I bit my bottom lip to keep from crying out. Silence, Spike ol' boy. Silence.

Stagnant. Still. Unmoving.

Shit, I did those already. I definitely did those already. Steady there, old chap. You've had worse. The lashes were worse…far worse. You managed through those. You can do this. Silence. Silence. Silence.

"Sorry!" I blurted through the pain. "'M sorry!" He eased up slightly.

"Why are you sorry?"

"'Cause…" I whimpered pathetically. Burying my face in the mattress, I mumbled, "'Cause you're my sire."

Harder. They came harder.

"What was that, my boy?"

My eyes rained.

"Cause you're my sire!" I cried and he stopped, hand in the air. He then brought it down to tenderly rub my back, trailing his thumb up my spine. I blubbered on and on.

_Cause you're my sire. Cause you're my sire. Cause you're my sire._

_Just want you to be proud of me._

Broken. I was broken. I was a crack in the vinyl, a motion in blank solitude.

And for all the words I know, my poetry will never improve.

* * *

**Angel's POV**

Sometimes I don't know where I end and Angelus begins. We share the same memories, the same body…some of the same desires. We share William. Our little boy. Sweet, hurting William.

He curled into my side, resting his blonde head on my broad chest and I ran my hand through that coarse hair and wished it soft.

He hurt. A lot. I liked doing it to him.

I am Angelus. Just with a conscious, an ability to feel something other than that ravenous urge pleading with me to suck them all dry. All of them dry. Suck. Dry. All of them. Sometimes I still want to do it.

When I was a lad, I liked the drink. I couldn't get enough. I was like a fish out of water, missing the taste of life. You never really escape your childhood.

It's funny really. All of it. Life. Death. Living inside a corpse. Really funny.

"Sire?"

And his voice is so soft, so devoid of its usual callousness, that I want him to cry just so I can kiss his tears away. My sweet, little Will.

"Hmm?"

"'M sorry," he murmured, shifting closer. "'M sorry."

He said it so much that it started to slur, and I tried to quiet him, saying, "Hush, William", but it was to no avail. He started sobbing, and his long lashes fluttered and blinked the tears into his beautiful eyes and he couldn't see.

I was harsh. A harsh sire. A bad sire. Too harsh.

I was cold and unfeeling and insensitive. I had been.

"My boy. My sweet, little boy," I tried to pacify him. "I was too hard on you. It's okay. Come now, no more tears. Look at me."

He looked up at me with cloudy eyes and I felt my heart break.

"You were very good and very brave and very strong tonight," I told him. "You were my sweet, strong, brave boy." He sniffled and pulled himself upwards so his nose could nuzzle my neck and his little, delicate hand pawed at my stomach.

"Sire?" he addressed me once again in that same soft, sweet tone.

"Yes, precious?"

He lifted his head a little more, nudged my ear with his nose. Nipped the lobe with his teeth. Then he whispered, "You're a heinous bastard."

In my proceeding moments of shock, my sweet, smug little Will fell into a fitful slumber.

By the time I shook it away, I realized he was right.

* * *

**TBC…**


	9. Keeping In Check

**Author's Notes:** Had problems with this one. Started writing it under the influence again _(friends don't let friends drink alone)_, then went back and read it the next day and was like "where in the hell is this going" because Spike had a creepy ass dream and just ended up really mentally unstable and I said to myself **"THIS WILL NOT DO"** so I went back and revised everything but the first few paragraphs, though I did keep the original chapter saved for future nostalgic purposes. I'm not sure why I just shared all of that, but hey…this chapter sucks. Maybe the next will be better. You'll probably also note that its a tad bit more slashy than it was in the beginning. To those of you who dislike, sorry sorry. It's hard to control when its focused around two hot vampires and you just want them to touch eachother all over. Mmmm.

**Stay **

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

**Spike's POV**

I have a foggy head. It happens after crying- like the mist after a downpour. Makes it hard to see straight and touch things and feel anything besides the great big bloody lump in my throat. I'm numb.

My head on his chest, my hand on his stomach, the rippling purr under his cold skin. Can't live without it. Can't stay away from him. My sire exists to teach me that emptiness is surprisingly vast and that I am empty without him.

"Precious?" his sleepy voice murmurs for me, and his long arm snakes around my middle. It's pins and needles, it is. His nails running down my back – it's the tingling after the numbness. I watch him as his eyes flutter open and slowly focus on my face and I feel more complete than I have in hours.

It still hurts, though. Still hurts.

"Yeah?" I finally answered.

He blinks at me, moans, presses me tighter into his side and mumbles, "Go back to sleep." Within a second, he's out again and everything is left unresolved. An enigma.

Always liked that word: enigma. I'd say it all the time if I had good reason.

I like to think that I'm an enigma. Like to think that people have a hard time figuring me out, but I know that's all just a barrel full of rubbish. I wear my bloody heart on my sleeve and that's why I get trampled on. It's why I'm easily controlled.

They always know just the button to push, just the wrong way to rub…and that's how I end up ankle-entangled with grandpappy, neutered, and starving for homicide. I was a bleedin' pup in his prime living large only to be cut short by a trip to the vet's, that's what I am. Free the puppies indeed. Free me.

Except I don't want to go. Not completely, at any rate. I didn't need him before this. Maybe for a little while, but I could've gone off on my own and been alright. He's conditioned me. He's gotten me addicted.

If I left right now, I'd go into withdrawal. Couple of hours I'd be crying and cold, shaking and screaming for him. Then I'd curl up in a dark alley and wait for sunrise, cause it's better to burst into flame and burn all the way to Hell than live without him. My sire's like heroin: instantaneously, a beautiful trip; but in the long run, he's fatal. Killin' me on the inside.

I heard the cheerleader and the watcher banging around upstairs and decided it was time to go up and socialize. Sitting around, watching Peaches sleep was driving me insane…not that I wasn't already. Vampires like pain, its true…but to get so very attached to those who insist on hurting me to the point where it's degrading? Mental health flag slipping slowly down the pole. I can see it now…waving so meekly in the air. Bloody sanity. Why can't you just stay put?

I managed to wriggle out of his death grip, but not without waking him up.

"Where're you goin'?" he demanded, his voice weak from sleep.

Slipping on my jeans from the day before, I scathingly replied, "To play with Auntie Cordy and Uncle Wes, _Daddy_. Unless you were planning on _spanking_ me again for being so very _naughty_ yesterday." Ah yes, that felt good. Even better was the expression on his face: kinda a mixture of guilt and anger.

"Maybe I will if you continue to take that tone with me," he shot back. I raised my eyebrows, crossed my arms, and waited. His muddled stare started to take on a shaky edge and eventually, guilt won over. "I'm sorry about that…I just got carried away."

I snorted. "'Course you did. You're a beast under all that human skin." I sifted through the shopping bags that I had carelessly dumped in the corner of the bedroom the previous day and finally settled on one of the few black long-sleeved shirts Cordelia had graciously purchased for me.

"Do you want me to come up with you?"

"'M a big boy," I deadpanned. "I can go upstairs by myself."

"Well, I don't know. Wesley and Cordelia can be very scary in their own right. Maybe I should-"

"SIRE." I raised my voice just enough that it tread the line of a shout. "I assure you, I'm perfectly capable of existing one floor above you. So why don't you just go back to sleep, dream your poofy dreams, and leave me the hell alone for a spell, okay?"

I knew this behavior would only lead to him coddling me more in the long run, but part of me was aiming for that. The other part of me was just getting a kick out of hurting him back.

Without another word, I raced up the stairs to find Cordelia and Wesley engaged in a name-calling competition. The cheerleader, icy and cool as always, pointed her finger at Wesley's face, saying that if there was a name for people who boned books she would be calling him that at that very moment. The bumbling lil' Watcher, surprisingly calmly and intelligently replied that at least there would be an exchange of information involved in such an act, rather than the genital warts Cordelia must have obtained from having slept with half of the Sunnydale High population.

After hearing that, I regrettably halted their little spat with a bit of applause.

"If we were at a pub, I'd buy you a drink," I told him, patting him on the shoulder. "Well…I'd actually threaten a beer out of the bartender an' give it to you, but all's good in love and alcohol."

Cordelia glared at me.

"And she doesn't have genital warts," I added, holding up my hands defensively. "I'd be able to smell them."

"Ew!"

I shrugged. "Jus' tryin' to help you out, pet."

She huffed. "Of course. That's all you ever do."

"Damn straight, love." I looked to Wesley. "'M sorry for runnin' out on you last night, Percy. Surprising revelation came about, though." I told him the entire story involving Penn, adding a few things in to make myself seem more bad arse and heroic-like…like say, that Penn had gotten Peaches into a fatal hold until I valiantly separated them with a well-aimed jab here and there and before I put the wanker to his rest…

* * *

**Angel's POV**

"…so I held the point of the stake against his dead, cold, wannabe artist heart and said, 'I'll show you original, you unimaginative sod!', and then I sliced him up all over and he screamed and begged for me just to end it all and I stopped for a moment, givin' the bugger some false hope, y'know? But then I just started up again and just let him scream some more…"

I listened to his muffled, half-fabricated story from my bed, yearning to be up there with them all…him sitting on my lap giving me his sulky eyes and his petulant pout. My boy doesn't want me right now, though. I've angered him, demeaned him. Just like I use to.

I care. I do care. I care a lot.

But I don't care at all.

It doesn't make sense, I know. Everything I feel about my little Will is conflicted and everything I do to him seems so nice and so good and so right, but it's all so very cruel and so very bad and so very wrong. It all comes with being a vampire, I suppose. Treading the line between the living and the dead. You see, my William is a railroad spike jammed into my ribcage. I can't decide whether just to leave him there to fill me up and endure a long, drawn-out end, or yank him out and set him free and live alone and empty and starving.

It's a tough decision, but I'm going with the former. I love him. I love my Will. Unconditionally, I think.

Unconditionally…for now.

Conflicted. Always conflicted. Goddamn oxymoron.

There's always a condition, isn't there? Say he gains his wits about him again, gets whatever's in his head out of his head. Say he does that. Say he goes off on a massive rampage, slaughters half of L.A. then goes back to Sunnydale and sucks Buffy dry.

Buffy.

I haven't thought of her in quite some time. Was that unconditional? No, there's always a condition. Unconditional doesn't exist.

I lay, pondering in my bed for at least an hour, zoning in and out of the conversations and laughter of my friends and childe upstairs. I was interrupted when the latter came barreling down and launched himself on top of me.

"What're you still doing down here, y'poof? It's three in the afternoon. Sunset is only a few hours away."

He straddled my stomach, unconsciously bouncing, resting his pretty pale hands on my chest.

"Thought you wanted to be left alone."

He waved his hand dismissively – I think he's been spending too much time with Cordelia. "That was an eternity ago, Sire. When the sun goes down, we can have some fun. Kill a few things. You know? Like old times…only with demons. We'll bond and rejoice. We'll laugh, we'll cry. It'll be an experience worthy of a hallmark card. Wes can come with us, too."

Now he was just being strange. "Uh…huh. And what about Cordelia?"

"Silly bint's got a date. We don't need her anyway. I'd say its more of a male bonding session than anything else."

"Are you sure Wesley-"

"Bloke was a rogue demon hunter," he sharply interrupted. "I think he can hold his own." The amount of defense stored in his voice fully indicated that he was doubtful of Wesley's ability to hold his own, but he'd never admit that to me. He'll probably never admit a lot of things to me.

"Okay," I agreed softly. I reached a hand up and scratched his belly. I felt him melt, felt the defensive barriers go down, heard his purr.

He tilted off of me, rolled, and curled up into my side.

"You really are a mean sod, you know," he whispered, burying his nose into the crook of my neck. "You're an oblivious, obsessive, possessive control freak who can't see under his big bloody Neanderthal brow."

I grunted.

"'S true," he continued. "You know it's true. You know as well as I do. You're anal retentive, barbaric, embarrassing in the worst way-"

I growled, whipped out a hand and pushed him down, maneuvered myself so I was straddling him this time. He was overstepping his bounds and he knew it. I also didn't like hard truths, not from him.

"Did I mention control freak?" he asked, not looking at all frightened, nervous, or chastised. "Can't take it for a minute, can you? Your impertinent childe dressin' you down. It's not right, is it, Sire? What're you gonna do? Slap me around a bit and tell me not to disrespect my elders?" He bucked his hips and unhinged me. Fortunately, I regained myself before toppling off. "Do it, you old bloomin' sod. Just bloody well do it."

He's my boy. My favorite boy. My little street urchin. His blue eyes are glittering with malice and defiance and challenge. His lips, so pale and pink, are parted and giving contrast to his milky white skin. His long lashes flutter coyly, patronizingly, begging and pleading for me just to ball up my fist and beat the brazenness out of his pretty, peroxide head. My impish little prince.

I clenched my fist, simultaneously cracking my large knuckles. He closed his eyes, awaiting the blows. I leaned down and kissed his forehead.

"You can't always get what you want, my precious Will," I chided gently, sliding off of his little torso. "I'm going to take a shower. Be a good boy for Sire and help Cordelia with the filing will you?" I turned my back, slid off the bed, and headed straight for the shower. I heard his indignant growl, but I didn't turn to reply. I couldn't.

Sometimes showers are just too important.

* * *

**Spike's POV**

"'Ey, Cheerleader," I glumly addressed Cordelia, jumping up onto her desk. "Need any help filin'?" She looked up from a slightly outdated issue of Vogue and snorted. "'Course not. Don't know what I was thinkin'."

"I have a date tonight," she said proudly, and also for the third time that day. "A _date_. Can you believe it?"

Of course I couldn't believe it.

"Sure hope he's a nice shag."

She threw the mag at my head, but I, being me, artfully dodged the attack. Instead, it hit Wesley, who had just stepped into the office, knocking off the poor bloke's glasses.

The cheerleader let loose a dainty little squeak and apologized.

"It's quite alright," the Watcher assured her.

"Cheerleader's gonna get laid tonight," I sang. "Cheerleader's gonna get laid tonight."

"Shut. Up."

"Cheerleader's gonna get laid tonight," I taunted, and after a few more, good ol' Wes joined in.

"Wesley!" she exclaimed in both surprise and dismay.

He flushed and shrugged, explaining that it was "a catchy tune." I like the bloke. He reminds me of me before the evil.

"I don't care how catchy it is. You're both worse than Xander frickin' Harris! Well, Spike I expect it from…but you, Wesley!" She then tilted her head to the side in a moment on contemplation and conceded, "Well, I guess you already had the dorkus maximus stuff already down and this little display of immaturity was just another shove in a very wrong dire-"

That's when she clutched her head and fell down.

Poor little bint and her visions.

* * *

**TBC...**

Thank you for reading and feel free to review. =)


	10. Fever

**A/N:** Well, I turned 19 yesterday (I know, I'm old). Anyway, I was more than a little depressed about it, so I wrote this to cheer me up. Consider this my present to you. Your present to me can be reviews. I really had no idea where to take this after the last chapter, then I started listening to a lot of jazz and decided to add in something not at all related with the season, just because I wanted to dress Spike up in a bowler hat and use the song "Fever" by Ella Fitzgerald cause like…that song? Amazing. You'd probably understand the segment of this chapter in which it's involved a lot more if you've heard it. It's hot. Pretty soon updates are going to be fewer and far between cause I'm going back to college within a week or two. Ah yes…I'm old. Gah, another year wasted. I'm done ranting now. I hope you enjoy this. I actually like it for once.

**Stay **

**Chapter 10**

****

* * *

**Angel's POV**

The city's dark tonight and I'm treading softly through the damp alley, my boy equally silent on one side and Wesley moving jerkily on the other. I can't help but pity Wesley at times like these – when I see his hands shake and his jaw clench and he wants to say something to prove his worth, but there's no words to be said, only actions to be had. William, on the other hand, has nothing to prove. He's silent, stealthy; maybe a little too quick in his step, but he's light on his feet. He lacks patience and attentiveness and level-headedness, but he knows this. He doesn't care. That's why he doesn't need to prove anything.

Wesley stepped in a puddle, interrupting our silent journey with a loud splash.

We all stopped dead in our tracks, stared at eachother, and simultaneously glanced around the alley for impending danger.

It wasn't there.

"Terribly sorry," Wesley whispered. "Didn't see it."

William snorted, heaved a sigh, stomped a Doc loudly on the pavement, and reached into the fashionable, sophisticated-looking duster I had leant him for the evening. He took out a pack of cigarettes with a slender hand, encompassed one in his lips, and plucked it out. He then made a show of searching for his favorite lighter, getting frustrated over not being able to find it, and stomping his Docs with increasing vigor over every empty pocket.

"Where's me lighter?" he demanded loudly. Wesley attempted to shush him, but only caused my boy to speak in a raised voice. "Who in the bloody fuck has my lighter?" The bowler hat perched precariously on top of his bleached head threatened to fall off. "Oh yeah." He dipped his head then, letting the hat fall into his awaiting hands. With a pretty, impish smile he fished his lighter out and held it up for us to see. "Forgot it was on me head."

I smacked said head.

"Don't be so conspicuous," I hissed.

"There ain't nothin' in this alley, Sire. We're headin' to a club, 'member? There's no reason I shouldn't raise a fuss over a missing lighter," he mumbled, lighting his cigarette. He threw the hat at me. "An' I don't wanna wear this stupid bloody hat, either."

Of course he didn't want to wear the hat. The hat looked so very wrong on him. But Cordelia's vision had ventured us onto the likes of a jazz club and I had trouble picturing my boy's peroxide head intermingling with the jazz era swinger types. Wesley could get away with making an appearance simply by his nerdy exterior, leading the other occupants of the club to believe that he was simply there for "cool points" or intellectual intrigue. And me…well, I'm dark brooding, and mysterious. People tend not to question.

"You'll wear the hat," I told him, jamming it firmly on his head. "And you won't complain." He grumbled a series of explicatives at me, but I ignored him.

We made a right turn at the end of the alley finding the door to the well-hidden little club right at the corner. The sounds of laughter and chatter and pretty bass lines poured in a muffled haze out into the street and Wesley and I exchanged a nervous glance and a gulp, because this kind of human interaction wasn't my cup of tea and he…well, he had an inferiority complex.

William, however - my precious, brave little warrior - immediately went for the handle and charged in. Wesley scampered behind him and I brought up the rear.

"How ya doin', fellas?" the bartender called over with a friendly smile. It was musky and smoke-filled, cigarettes and cigars and cloves between the fingers of nearly every patron. On the small stage, backed up by a multitude of instruments, stood a rounded Caucasian woman, sweet tender notes flowing out of her dark red lips.

"Angel," Wesley said quietly, tugging on my arm. I snapped out of my reverie and joined him and my childe at the bar for a cold one.

_A cold one?_

"'S a nice place," William grinned, sucking on his cigarette. "I could grow to like it." He looked at the bartender and said, "I'll have a brandy, mate," setting the amiable man to work.

It certainly was a nice place, filled with alcohol and tobacco and good music and happy, carefree people. I hadn't been to a place like this in ages; a jubilant, cozy club where the drunks were drunk and those who weren't drunk would be soon. Waves and waves of nostalgia lapped over me and buried me and if I breathed, I would drown – the taverns back when I was a lad. That's what this was like. With the pretty women and the womanizing men and brawls…only without the brawls…and the pretty women…and everything else.

"What are we here for again?" I heard Wesley ask on my other side.

"Hey, guy, can I get you somethin'?"

I blinked, realizing the bartender was addressing me and replied, "Yeah…I'll have a Slow Comfortable Screw."

"Against The Wall?" he inquired.

"Nah, just the Slow Comfortable Screw."

I watched my boy take a sip of his brandy, listened to the ice cubes clink against the glass. He bent his head to side and twisted it around, effectively cracking his impressive neck – all tender and smooth and white and delicious…

"'M not your Slow Comfy Screw, Sire," he told me. "Stop lookin' at me with those lust-ridden poofter eyes of yours." But then he smiled as he took off his hat and laid it on the bar. Lit up another cigarette, took a drag, and handed it to me. "This should ease up that oral longing, Peaches." And I took it and smoked it, realizing minutes later that it was my first cigarette since the evil thing happened, but not really caring.

I heard Wes order a Dirty Martini and then I felt his hand on my shoulder and when I looked at him, he looked more comfortable than I'd ever seen him before. "This place is remarkable, isn't it?" he asked. "I mean, really…I don't know why we're here, but I'm glad we came."

"'S where everyone knows your name," William giggled, setting his chin on my shoulder and, after a moment, whipped out his wicked little tongue and licked my cheek. "Only no one knows anythin' about us."

"William," I scolded, wanting to turn away, but feeling myself resisting.

"Had some of your Slow Comfortable Screw on your cheek, Sire," he told me. "Had to help you with it."

"It's liquid."

"So's blood but you lick that off of me like there's no tomorrow."

"I didn't spill."

"Isn't no matter, Da," he mumbled, nuzzling his nose into my neck. "It's under your skin."

The band quieted down, silenced and stilled completely. The plump woman with dark red lips announced that Ella Fitzgerald was her hero and quiet beats from the percussionist started up. I watched, momentarily memorized, as she rhythmically snapped her fingers with the beat. Then the bassist joined in, plucking a few notes.

"This music," Wesley practically purred. "This music is intoxicating."

_Never know how much I love you  
Never know how much I care  
When you put your arms around me  
I get a fever that's so hard to bear_

_You give me fever  
When you kiss me  
Fever when you hold me tight_

I felt William's teeth playing at my earlobe.

_Fever  
In the morning  
Fever all through the night  
Sun lights up the daytime  
Moon lights up the night  
I light up when you call my name  
And you know I'm gonna treat you right_

He crept like a feline into my awaiting lap.

_You give me fever  
When you kiss me  
Fever when you hold me tight  
Fever  
In the morning  
Fever all through the night_

I nipped his neck with blunt teeth and felt his little body shudder in my arms.

_Everybody's got the fever  
That is something you all know  
Fever isn't such a new thing  
Fever started long ago  
_  
He ran his tongue over my closed eyes, scraped his face all along mine.

_Romeo loved Juliet  
Juliet she felt the same  
When he put his arms around her,  
He said Julie, baby, you're my flame.  
Thou givest fever  
When we kisseth  
Fever with thy flaming youth  
Fever, I'm a fire  
Fever, yay, I burn forsooth_

He caught my lower lip in his mouth.

_They give you fever  
When you kiss them  
Fever if you live, you learn  
Fever, till you sizzle_

"Er…fellas."

_What a lovely way to burn  
What a lovely way to burn  
What a lovely way to burn  
What a lovely way to burn_

"ANGEL!"

With a yelp, my boy jumped off of my lap glancing around with wild blue eyes.

I looked at Wesley, who was looking at the stage with a most horrified expression on his face. I swiveled my head around to see all of the drunken patrons, sprawled and unconscious around the floor. The hefty songstress had sprouted horns and a tail.

"Huh?" was all I could say.

"Oi! Patsy Cline!" William shouted to the demon. "What's goin' on?"

"It's dinnertime," she rumbled back.

"Oh dear," Wesley said.

I looked to the still conscious, smiling bartender. "What the hell is this?"

He shrugged. "Can't really tell you, buddy. She does this about once a year. Keeps us in alcohol and entertainment for free, then eats the regulars we've acquired within the year."

"And…you're okay with this?"

"Business is business."

"Can't argue with that logic, Sire," William told me. "Evil is evil. And they do look kinda tasty." I gave him a hard look, and his gaze shifted to his feet. "I meant…eating people bad! We must put a stop to this…treachery!"

"You're damn right."

"You're such a bloody tightarse," he murmured, and the three of us – Wesley, William, and myself – leapt valiantly into battle.

* * *

**Spike's POV**

"Well, that was bleedin' fantastic," I groused, picking at a particularly nasty wound. "Who would've thought the chit would have bleedin' thorns growin' out of 'er tits?"

"I don't even want to know why you aimed for that area of her body," Wesley muttered beside me. "There were plenty of other areas for you to strike." He had a cut on his eyebrow and blood was gooshin' out of it and running into his eyes. Made it look like he was crying blood like in those shite vampire novels by Anne Rice.

"William, stop picking that," Peaches chided, swatting at my hand. "We'll clean it up when we get home."

"It's startin' to itch."

"That means it's healing," the watcher said matter-of-factly. "It won't heal if you keep at it like that."

"Bloody Hell."

"Stop. Scratching."

I gave my sire a withering look and purposefully picked at the bleeding gash just to grate his nerves.

"Stop it," he growled, snatching my hand away and holding onto it with a kind of strength that would cause a human's hand to break. "We're nearly home."

"It's my battle wound, I can scratch it if I want," I replied, quickly jerking my hand out of his only to have it recaptured.

"Stop acting like a spoiled little boy and do as I say." He interlaced his fingers with mine and dragged me forward. "Why do you enjoy testing me so?"

"You give me the fever, Sire."

He growled, swung me around, and lifted me into his arms before I could gain my footing.

"We're not going to speak of that song ever again."

"But it's such a lovely way to burn," I grinned, resting my chin on the top of his head so he couldn't see where he was going. "Fever when you're kissin' me, fever when you're holdin' me tight."

"William!"

"Spike!"

My grin widened. Percy must have been up to some mischief during that song as well.

"Fever in the morning…" He hefted me over his shoulder, and I hit his back in protest. "FEVER ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT."

"Oh for Heaven's sake, can't we just leave him in a puddle of urine somewhere?" Wesley asked.

"I'm tempted."

I quieted and sulked. Don't know why I hang out with these two poofs. Should drain the watcher and the cheerleader and leave my sire cryin' in his bed, but noooo. There's the fever. Stupid fever.

He didn't let me down until we got into the office and even then he just slid onto the couch and settled me onto his lap.

I felt his tongue lap at my wound, licking it clean and free of blood. Felt his lips press to my cheek.

"All better," he decided softly, gently shifting me onto the furniture so he could go and attend to the watcher's scrapes.

Bloody fever.

Makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.

* * *

**TBC…**


	11. Fever Of A Different Sort

**Author's Notes:** This might not go on...much longer...or at all. I'm quickly losing interest and not many people seem to read it. Not that I'm not grateful to all of you who faithfully read and review every single chapter. You guys, as I like to deplorably put it, "rawk". It's just not that good and not that inspired, is all. Anyway, I'll figure something out.

**Stay**

**Chapter Eleven**

* * *

**Spike's POV**

I felt sticky. Hot and sticky. I felt like no respectable vampire ever should. And my belly ached and my palms were slick with perspiration and my head was fuzzy and my lips were dry; and when I tried to kick the sheets off of my moist legs, they clung to me like no respectable sheets ever should.

"Sire!" came my piteous croak, and I paused for a moment, in awe at just how flimsy and fragile I sounded. Listening carefully, I realized that he was already upstairs, starting his evening with the cheerleader and the watcher. A workingman, my sire was.

"Peaches!" I tried again, but it was even weaker than the previous and I swallowed back the little bit of saliva that lingered in my dry mouth. I opened up for one last attempt and was rewarded with a hollow-sounding wheeze.

Bloody Hell.

With great effort, I eased myself up in the bed, slid off, and stood shakily on my legs. Wobbling unsteadily, I took small steps towards the elevator, and yearned for my sire to hear my distress. The lightheadedness hit me right quick, knocking me over and down against the wall and I choked, hacked, and let out a most ignoble wail of frustration, hit the floor with my fist, and tried to blink away the humiliating tears threatening to stream down my already damp face.

My head hummed, my body went limp, and I closed my eyes and tried to will away the pain because I didn't know what else to do. I was sick as a soddin'…something that was normally sick, and I hadn't a clue how to alleviate my misery, 'cause what kind of sad excuse for a creature of the night gets sick anyway?

Then I got the chills and I shook and trembled and bit my lip and held myself to try to get warm again even though I'm never warm and I shouldn't be trying to make myself warm because that's bloody dishonorable of a master vampire such as myself.

"Will?"

Ah yes, my sire's soft, soothing voice. At long last. I felt his cold hand touch my forehead; my cheeks – first left, then right; my nose, my neck – front, side to side, then back; dancing his fingers along my shoulders, then down my spine.

"You're burning up."

There was an unease laced in his tone now as I felt him gather me in his cold arms, lift me, and carry me back to the sweat-soaked sheets of his bed.

"Sire," I groaned, writhing away as he tried to tuck me back in. "'S goin' on?" I heard him shush me, felt his large hands rub graceful, tender circles on my belly before taking my complacency to his advantage and tucking the sheet around me. "Sire?" And I tried to open my eyes, to see him standing over me, just so I could know and seek solace in his dark, strong form; so I could know he was watching over me. But the light hit my eyes first and I whimpered something pitiful and snapped them shut.

"It's okay, Will. Sire's going to make you better," he whispered, and I felt his cool finger brush a damp tendril of hair from my forehead. "I'm going to be right back. Just stay here and try to rest."

I couldn't help but wonder what else I would do, seeing as how I couldn't move without collapsing like some pansy-arsed nancyboy.

A few minutes later, I heard him re-enter the apartment accompanied by two extra pairs of footsteps.

"Oh, wow. He looks _terrible_," Cordelia commented and I heard her move to my side and felt her palm press against my forehead. "Corpses definitely shouldn't be that hot."

"I can hear you, y'know," I rasped, turning my head away. "M not delusional or delirious or unaware or…whatever." I opened my eyes, blinked hard and long to adjust to the light, and looked to my sire. "Why'd you bring these two down here?"

"We have to figure out what's wrong with you and I'm not willing to leave you alone down here until we do," he said, his voice firm as if I had been arguing with him.

I shut my eyes again. "Hurts." The bed depressed with a heavy weight and I laboriously inched and fidgeted until my pained head was on my sire's lap.

"I know, precious," he soothed. "Wesley?"

"Well, clearly it's a ramification of attacking that demon last night. I'm, ah…just wondering why you and I aren't in the same state of illness," Percy contemplated. It was silent for a few minutes as they all pondered, and I relished in the lack of noise, burrowing my head into my sire's belly and encouraging him to keep up with the soothing motions of physical contact. Then the watcher exclaimed, "TITS!"

"Huh?" my sire asked, sounding completely mystified.

"Tourettes much?" Cordelia asked.

"I meant, ah…breasts. The demon's breasts. Spike complained of them having thorns and neither of us went near that area."

"Patsy had poisonous bristols, then?" I groaned, ducking under my sire's T-shirt and pressing my hot head against his bare skin. "Just my bloody luck."

"So we need to figure out what kind of demon she was," Cordelia concluded as my Sire attempted to pry my head out of his personal space. "Where do we start?"

"Patsy, as Spike fondly calls her, exudes a highly sexual, hedonistic aura that when contained in a room spreads and affects those around her. She also has a very sweet, hypnotic singing voice."

"Don't forget the annual feast where she chows down on lotsa humans at one time," I added. "'S pretty important."

"Indeed it is," Wesley agreed.

"I thought you killed her," Cordelia interjected, confused. "Why are you talking about her in the present tense?"

"I believe they were just referring to all Patsy-like demons as Patsy," Peaches told her.

"I was actually just fondly reminiscing," I contradicted, inwardly cringing at how my voice rasped. "Chit could carry a beautiful tune, and no matter how poisonous those jubblies were, she was one nicely-endowed, homicidal bint."

"Angel, he's disgusting," the cheerleader bluntly informed my sire.

"He's allowed. My poor boy's all hot and clammy and ill, so he can be as vulgar and degrading as he pleases," Angel replied. Then he looked down at me with affection in his poofy, soulful, brown eyes, scratched my tummy, and asked in a motherese tone, "Can't he?"

I glared at him. "Just keep scratching and I won't curse you out good and proper like you deserve." For once, he did as I said without scolding me like the knackerless mother hen that he was. I shuddered as a fresh wave of chills overtook my body.

Unlife was really starting to suck.

* * *

**Angel's POV**

I watched my friends sink into the mundane act of researching, Wesley's sharp eyes skimming paragraph after paragraph while Cordelia's lids drooped over her own brown orbs, delicate chin resting on a small fist, contributing every so often with a gracious flip of the page. My childe, unnaturally warm, was asleep and nestled in my arms, his fervid state causing his darling forehead to perspire, his exquisite, little hands moist and unconsciously kneading my thigh.

"She sang 'Fever'," I addressed my friends softly. "Do you think there some kind of magic behind the song?"

Wesley negated my thought with a quick shake of his head. "However uncanny it may be, I believe these two events were coincidental. Despite this, the song did have an effect on both you and Spike, causing you to become…erm…" his mouth opened and shut and opened and shut and he said "ah" and "uh" and that's when I finally decided to give the poor guy a break.

"Affectionate," I supplied.

He looked relieved, "Indeed. Affectionate. It held a certain amount of sexual power over you. I have a theory that physical attraction is linked to Spike's illness, as he was clearly going two separate ways last night. Drawn to both you and Patsy's thorny bosom, two very different things, something within him may have become imbalanced when he came into physical contact with the demon."

I blinked. I watched Cordelia blink.

"Erm, Wesley…?"

He fidgeted, then sighed. "Okay, so it's just the bloody poison that we have no clue how to alleviate."

Cordelia poked him in the side. "You just wanted to say thorny bosom. Admit it."

"I'll do nothing of the sort."

She snorted. "C'mon, Wesley, I want the truth."

"To quote Jack Nicholson in the classic 1992 film, _A Few Good Men_, 'you can't handle the truth.'"

An awkward pause ensued, and I'm not sure why because I hadn't seen a movie in a long time. Well, not since with Buffy, but before that even longer. Definitely not in 1992. By Cordelia's blank expression, I expected that seeing a 1992 movie starring Jack Nicholson was a bit of a stretch for her as well.

I nearly jumped when Will started laughing in my arms.

"Son, we live in a world that has walls. And those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Who's gonna do it? You?…" he trailed off, opening dazed blue eyes and searching my face. "I love that picture." He lifted a fair finger and touched the bridge of my nose. "Love my Sire." He trembled then, whimpered a little, shut his pretty eyes. "Room's spinnin' like a bloody carousel." He ripped at the sheets around his waist. "Tell 'em to stop spinnin' us 'round, Da. 'S not how we play. Tell 'em to stop or you'll rip their throats out."

"He's delirious," Wesley remarked.

"I'll say," Cordelia added.

He panted and wept, clinging to my shirt with his balmy hands, tears running down his aberrantly flushed face. "Did it stop, yet?" he asked. "Did it?"

"It stopped," I assured him gently. "It's all over."

"Did you rip their throats out?"

"Dead and gone, little one."

He mewled, nestling his wan, little face into the crook of my neck and moments later, he'd drifted off to sleep again.

"That was…weird," Cordelia said.

I didn't pay attention to her, gathering my childe into my lap and cradling him. Feeling his abnormal warmth against my skin, I couldn't help but feel a pang of panic. What if Patsy's malignant breast milk was my boy's final fatality? And in the thoughts of my poor little William being finished off by a cheap parlor singer, I changed into my demon visage and tore at my wrist with my fangs.

"Angel!" Cordelia exclaimed, as if this would permanently harm me and she'd be destined forever to financial inadequacy.

I heard Wesley hush her and reassure her as I put my bleeding wrist under William's nose, then touch it to his slightly parted lips, waiting for him to come to.

His blue eyes snapped open and his little tongue shot out in a quick abrupt movement to take a tentative lick. Then, still in human face, he latched on and suckled like a newborn calf to a cow's teat. I circled my free arm around his middle, pinned his legs down with my own, and kissed his warm, smooth neck as he noisily and messily fed, little drips of crimson running from his blunt, human teeth down his pretty white chin. He finished minutes later, licking his lips and holding his face up to mine, allowing me to clean what he couldn't reach.

"Sire." A little whisper that screamed of contentment, thumped at my still heart. He lay against me, his back to my chest, and rested his sweet, blonde head underneath my chin.

"Better?" I inquired, then pressed another kiss to his temple, noting that the skin was already a bit cooler than it had been, the tinge of pink had begun to leave his cheeks.

His answer was a very feline yawn, his mouth gaping wide open, lasting seconds longer than any yawn really should have. When I nudged, and asked again, it was a petulant, "'M tired." To which I chuckled and rubbed my hand over his firm stomach, eliciting a purr of gratification.

"Do you think he's cured?" Wesley asked, snapping me out of my newfound serenity. "Do you think that's all he's needed all along?" I gave my two employees a sheepish look.

"We wasted all that time worrying and looking through these boring old books when you just sat there like Mr. Worried Mommy Estrogen Pants and had the freakin' antidote the whole time?" Cordelia asked incredulously. "You are so paying us overtime."

"Cordelia, all you did was flip pages," I reminded her.

"All? _All_!?" she demanded, holding up her perfectly manicured fingers. "I'll have you know that during this completely pointless and mundane research session, the unworthy pages of those musty things scratched the paint off of the edge of this nail," She lowered all but her middle finger. Wesley sniggered. I gaped in surprise and covered William's already closed eyes.

"Cordelia, I understand you're upset with me, but please refrain from using rude gestures in front of William."

"Huh?" She looked at what she was doing and scoffed, putting a hand over her mouth. "Oh. There was actually paint chipped on that finger."

"Rude gestures?" my boy's sleepy voice asked. "Who's usin' rude gestures?"

"Hush, Will. Nobody. Back to sleep with you."

"Yes, Sire," he mumbled, fluttering back to his dreams.

I grinned at that, wondering if there was a local herd of Patsy demons to which I could track down and milk for their poison. I'd love it if my little one were always so sweet, willing, and compliant.

"So, I suppose we've all learned a lesson from this," Wesley spoke up, getting to his feet and tucking notes and scraps of paper away in his pockets, closing the books, and stacking them neatly on the table. We waited an absurd amount of time for him to continue, but it seemed like he had said all that he wanted to say.

"And what's that, Wesley?" Cordelia asked, feigning interest, and sounding for all the world like they were introducing a random, impractical product on an infomercial.

"Well, um…er…never fondle a demon's bosom during battle?" He shifted from foot to foot, chewing his lip thoughtfully. "No matter how plentiful and heaving it may have appeared…"

"Sounds like good advice to me," I agreed.

"Don't knock it 'till you've tried it, mate," William murmured, blindly searching until he touched my wayward hands and placing them back on his stomach. "Keep on then, Sire. 'M still an ailin' little boy, jus' for you."

"Oh, so you _role-play_ in your spare time," Cordelia commented. She wrinkled her nose. "Ew." With that, both she and Wesley exchanged looks, and headed back upstairs to continue on with our most gratifying business.

"Are you feeling better?" I tried to ask him again. He didn't speak for a long time so I prodded, "Will?"

"No."

"No? What's hurting?"

"No."

"William."

"No."

I dropped my hands and he collected them again, placing them back where I suppose they rightfully belonged.

"What's the matter with you?"

"No."

* * *

**Spike's POV**

Maybe if I just deny everything, he won't deny me.

* * *

TBC...? 


	12. Yours Always For The Taking

**A/N:** Incredibly short. Closing it up very slowly. Can expect a few more chapters.

**Stay**

**Chapter Twelve**

* * *

**Angel's POV**

The fever dimmed, but never died completely. In the week that followed, my boy's mood went up and down and twirled around like one of those frighteningly raucous, newfangled rollercoasters. One minute he'd want to hold my hand, and the next he'd want to bite it off. He would speak in brief sentences, snapping angrily or baring his fangs when pressed to elaborate. If scolded, he only glared; a sullen glint in his brilliant blue eyes.

Most of the time he kept himself away downstairs, cocooning in the covers of my bed and ignoring all the sounds around him. On rare occasion, he'd come upstairs and into my office, sit at my feet and nudge my hand like a love starved puppy until it was on his head. Then I'd pull him onto my lap and feed him from my wrist and he'd allow me to hold him for a few minutes before shoving me away and leaving quickly.

"SPIKE!"

And other times - other most awful times - he'd do his best to remind us that he was still evil.

"THIS IS A NEW SHIRT, YOU LITTLE LOSER! A NEW, VERY WHITE SHIRT THAT YOU JUST INTENTIONALLY SPILLED COFFEE ON!" I sat at my desk, listening to Cordelia screaming through the thin, wood door that separated my office from the lounge. I could practically hear my boy smirk. "DON'T YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY? **_ANGEL! _**GET OUT HERE!"

Like a good employer, I obeyed.

Cordelia was heedlessly patting at her ruined shirt with a tissue, trying to get the brown coffee out of the prim white, exceedingly low-cut tanktop that I'll never actually tell her is inappropriate for work.

"Was it hot?" I asked her, though I kept my eyes trained on my boy who was now tucked away in my office slouched in a chair, looking unconcerned, but slightly sulky.

"Nah. He would have gotten a headache," she grumbled. "He still should have."

"How much was the shirt?"

I ended up giving her an absurd amount of money for such a tiny bit of fabric, but it got her to shut up for a few minutes so I guess it was worth it. I sauntered into the office, closing the door behind me.

"That's the fourth Cordelia clothing garment that I've replaced this week," I sighed, kneeling in front of his chair. "I'd like to know why." He regarded me with an air of resentment. "Spike." He cocked his head, eyes brightened slightly with interest. I hadn't called him Spike in weeks. "Can't you tell me what's wrong?"

Of course he couldn't. That would be too easy. Instead he had to roll his eyes to the ceiling, cross his arms over his chest, thrust his lower lip out in a petulant pout...had to ignore me.

"Will?"

I placed a tentative hand on his thigh.

His leg struck out and kicked me in the chest.

It took a few minutes to shake away the initial shock that my precious childe had just kicked me, something quite out of the ordinary considering the past several weeks. Still sprawled over the floor, I locked my eyes on his lowered head.

"'S Spike," he muttered. "Spike." He blinked slowly, his eyes focused on my knee, trailing up to somewhere on my neck and lingering there, never quite meeting my gaze. Nodding to himself, he repeated, "'M Spike."

Spike. He's Spike.

"You're Spike."

"'M Spike."

Spike. Spike. Spike.

He raised his eyes and I found myself staring into the sky, endless and infinite and threaded with so many emotions that I thought there no possible way for it to break. He slid off the chair, onto his knees, lifted a hand and put it forward.

"Spike."

A knee, a hand, a knee.

A hand. On my hand. A knee. On my knee.

Lips on my lips.

"I'm evil. I'm soulless."

I knew that. I swear I knew that.

Eyes on my eyes.

"'M a spoiled little boy."

Fingers clever at the fastenings of my designer dress pants.

"A very naughty, naughty little boy. Just for you."

Hands lifting the shirt from my back.

"Always for you."

Hard lips. A vicious kiss.

"I belong to you."

He said he was mine and possession only really goes one way.

But I was his.

On the office floor.

* * *

**A/N: That's all for now. More later.**


	13. Spinning

**a/n:** As always, reviews are much appreciated. =). Uh...this is sort of trippy but I was trying to get across the fact that Spike was feverish. Don't know how well I accomplished it and I don't know how well the point of this chapter will get across, but I say just take what you can from it.

**Stay**

**Chapter Thirteen**

* * *

**Spike POV**

My. Name. Is. Spike.

My blood is cold and stagnant and borrowed and stolen and Sire used to tell me that it wasn't my blood. It was his. I was his. **Whose blood is this?** Yours, Sire. Always yours. Always. Forever. Til the day I'm bloody dust in the dark, everything about me is yours. And he'd say, "Mine" and pound me into the mattress and sink his fangs into my neck and drink and drink and take, and I'd give and he never gave back.

But now it's different. He doesn't want to drink and drink and take and I don't want to give and give and never receive. He cares - I can feel it in his gentle mouth trailing kisses down my abdomen. I can see it in the brown eyes that peer up at me, searching for the pleasure I wanted so much not to express. But I'd give him anything. Anything.

"Will," he murmurs, his lips brushing over my navel.

"Spike," I correct. "Spike."

I'd screamed my own name during. Screamed it. Not his name. Mine.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Gathered me into his large, cold arms afterwards and stroked my hair just like he always had and always would, because I was his. Planted little kisses on my forehead, on my lips, on my cheeks, on my eyes because they were his, too.

**Whose?** He would ask.

Yours, Sire. Yours. Your precious, sweet-hearted William. Yours. Always and forever and day by day and year by year until the Slayer finally does me in with a wooden stick and an insipid quip.

**Whose?**

Yours. Yours on earth and yours in Hell. And when I'm burning for my sins, I'll still be yours because I burn for you. Because you damned me. "Spike," he hesitated before he said it. He doesn't like it. "You're burning up."

"Mine," I replied, rolling onto his toned body. "Mine." And God, his body is so cold so cool against my own and I feel human again because being against him is like falling naked knee deep in snow. And I smell him - inhale that beautiful, masculine scent that's buried within his skin - and I perch myself on his stomach and I cry. Big soddin' tears all down my face.  
  
He murmurs little Gaelic phrases that I don't understand, wraps his arms around me and brings me down once again. Because he can. Because I'm his.

His breathy whispers are dreaming against my ear - a coddling tone, a soothing hand stroking down my back, hesitantly stopping on my bum because he doesn't know if it's right to touch me while I'm crying and whimpering and pathetic, but he'll do it anyway. He'll take that risk.

Because I'm his boy. I'll always be his boy.

"You're sick, precious," he says in hushed tones, but I'm trying to ignore him because he doesn't understand and he'll never understand. He's my blood and my hands and my eyes and my skin and my heart and my fingers and my feet and my arms and my legs and my thighs and my knackers and my arse. He's my blood, my blood - rushing through my veins and it all belongs to him and only to him and nothing belongs to me.

But I'll do anything to be his.

"Mine," I growled, shoving him away.

He looks surprised now and his forehead is creased in that way it does when he's showing any kind of facial expression and he's so beautiful, my sire is. Everything he does is beautiful to me.

"What's yours?"

I bite my tongue so hard it bleeds and I'm so hot and sticky and the room is spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning and why isn't anything tipping over?

"Mine," I repeated more softly, and I crawled less than gracefully and sprawled over him.

"Yours." I kissed his neck three times - short, hard, quick kisses and I dragged myself over him, relishing in the way that if he were an ice cube and I were water, he'd be cracking right now. Kiss kiss kiss up his neck, and a kiss on his chin and on his cheek and his nose and his forehead and his eyelids and back down again and there's his mouth. That mouth that can bruise me better than his belt, pale and parted and pretty and panting. That mouth hurts.

I plunge my tongue into that mouth. That mouth.

He purrs, great big rumbling and for a minute, I mistake the vibration for my heart beating and I pull away and suck in a breath and fall into his arms again because the room's spinning and Da will rip their throats out because we don't play that way.

"Will?"

Mine. Mine. Mine.

His lips press against my forehead and I squirm against him, clutching at his side, and I'm hungry and why isn't there blood?

I sink my fangs right underneath his nipple and he doesn't whimper because Sire never whimpers and Sire never cries. He's strong and in control and he knows what's best for me. His blood is sweet and tangy and rich and it flows through me so well and cools me down because it's cold blood because he's cold and I'm cold and we're always so cold, me and my sire are. We're the icicles dripping from the roof of the barn.

"Starvin'," I murmur, climbing back up his body so he can lick the remnants from my face because I'm his messy lil' cub and he didn't kill me with his big teeth and claws even though I was the runt and held the rest of the pride behind. "I starve for you."

He said more soothing things and cuddled me and kissed me and loved me. Loved me.

Spinning.

I threw a leg over his waist and an arm over his chest and rubbed against his side and scraped at his neck with my fangs and growled and snarled and I was there and the room was spinning and the lights were dimming and the sun was going down.

"Will?" He sounded so concerned and I gripped him more tightly to me and he gripped me more tightly to him and we were still, so still and everywhere else in the world was spinning while we were stagnant and beautiful and dreaming of home.

"Spike," I said softly. "'S Spike now."

"You're burning up," he said again, pressing his cold hands against my skin. "You're so warm."

"Sickly. Ill," I reminded him. "'M less than I was somehow." In your arms. Less than me in your arms.

Another kiss, deep and bruising in its exploration and I thought I heard the ceiling fan crash to the ground but it was my imagination.

And I asked, "Whose?"

And he said, "Mine."

* * *

**TBC...**


	14. Stay

__

**Stay**

**Chapter Fourteen**

* * *

_His. There's nothing quite like being his,_ Spike thought. The younger vampire stood, swayed for a moment, standing freely naked and sweating in the throws of his fever. His sire lay under him, looking at him worriedly, and when he swayed so much that he was threatening to fall, Angel placed steadying hands on his thighs. Angel was his sire. Angel worried.

His father, his lover, his everything, but Angel would **never** be _his_. Spike knew that now. He'd known it all along. In his lust-ridden ride to ecstasy, he'd known that. In the passionate kisses that left his tongue feeling spent and swollen, he'd known that.

In the gentle caresses and the worst of the beatings, he'd liked to pretend that he had no idea.

"Will, sit back down," Angel ordered softly. When he didn't, there was a note of desperation in Angel's 'please, little one?' and Spike felt his hope lift and touch the untouchable sun, because no matter how impoverished he was, he could always make his sire beg.

"'M I yours, then?" he asked quietly, sinking onto his sire. "All yours? Because you always say that 'm yours and that means that 'm not mine and you sure as hell aren't bloody mine either, 'cause you wear the belt and beat me with it, too." And then he was on his back on the floor, and Spike was left wondering exactly how his sire always managed to top him - no matter how firm his grip, and how cunning his intent, Angel always managed to best him. There was that disapproving frown then, the frown he always received when he questioned plans as a fledgling and tried to be too self-sufficient because Will was never smart enough to understand exactly where his place was and that his sire knew what was best. Angelus always knew what was best and that's why Angelus was the owner and Spike would always be the loyal puppy who came back, little pink tongue lolling out of his mouth and tail wagging.

However, Angelus always did the licking. It was his specialty, really. Angel's, too, because soul or no soul you're the same bloody person and have the same bloody tongue that like to do the same naughty things and that's why Spike groaned; because that bloody tongue was licking his stomach and those large hands were kneeding their way underneath him. William the Bloody found his own fingers intertwined in his sire's stiff, gelled hair, tugging and groping and wondering how one tongue could be so clever and cause so much pleasure and pain at the same time.

But the tongue stopped, and Spike closed his eyes and felt the weight pin him down, felt a soft paternal kiss on his nose and big thumbs stroking his cheeks.

"I love you."

Love. Love was a burned map , burnt to ash at all of the marked trails and roads and big rocks. Love got you lost in a merciless maze and if you stepped out of line once, just once...

"You love me like you love your expensive satin sheets," Spike whispered back. "'M your boy, your little poet prince. Yours. Always yours." More gentle kisses, kissing away his tears because they weren't really his.

A knock at the door and Cordelia called for Angel and Spike shuddered and shivered and trembled and shook.

"What is it, Cordelia?" Angel's voice was quavering and suspiciously hoarse, and Spike placed a placating hand on his sire's chest, right over the lack of the beat. Hearts were still and black and Spike knew that now. Then again, Spike had known that all along. It was William who had been oblivious.

"If a client comes in while you're having vampire sex on your office floor, what are we supposed to tell them?"

"Just a minute."

Spike's eyes lingered over his sire's naked form, then over his half-naked form, then over his fully clothed form. Because his eyes always lingered on Angel when they had no where else to go.

"Precious, dress."

Always lingering lingering lingering on that exposed skin.

Angel shook his head with a sigh, watching the blue eyes of his boy dazedly fall to a random place on his neck. Difficult as he was, his William was always moreso when he was ill and troubled.

"William," he tried again, snapping his fingers for attention, but the boy was unresponsive. Angel took the initiative and dressed the limp figure himself, quick yet cautious with his movements. He then dragged the smaller vampire to his feet and led him outside.

Cordelia had gone home.

"Spike, are you still feeling ill?" As always, Wesley's inquiry was timid and brimming with concern. Wesley admired and respected Angel, and he felt a great amount of empathy for the vampire. Probably more than any former Watcher ever should. Thus, Angel's concerns were Wesley's concerns and that included the rude and brash, yet strangely endearing Spike.

"Jus' a bit, mate," Spike replied. "'M gonna be better soon, though. Don't you worry."

"Are you?" Angel asked, confused. "I just dressed you because you wouldn't dress yourself."

"Jus' figurin' out my cure, Peaches." He stood on the tip of his toes and planted a soft kiss on his sire's mouth. "Your cure."

"My cure?"

"Everything that should be mine, is yours."

"Will-"

"My blood, my body...all yours."

"Will, what are you-"

"This fever," Spike cut him off. "My head, my mind...all yours. I've deluded meself into thinkin' that somewhere around these parts-" he ran his fingers along his body, "-somethin' here is mine. 'S not. 'S'all yours, sire." Another kiss. "Your blood, your body..."

"Spike, that's not an entirely healthy way to think..." Wesley trailed off.

"You're not mine. We're not equals. You let me have some sometimes to keep me sane. You'll take it like a champ, but you're never gonna whimper, Angel. Never. You'll never be mine because I can never make you mine like you made me yours." Spike flicked his tongue over Angel's neck. "Yours forever. You didn't steal, because I was given to you. You're not much for petty theft, sire. Never were." He nestled his face into the crook of his sire's neck. _Home_, he thought. _This is where home is._

"Will, you're burning up." Angel placed a hand on his childe's back, irked by the behavior.

"Shhh, Da. Don't you worry about me anymore, old man." That adorable little face nuzzling his cheek. "Such a lovely way to burn."

He didn't even see it coming. Didn't see the game face spring up, the rage and hurt and unabated love blazing in his boy's golden eyes. Didn't see any of it. He hardly felt the fangs pierce his neck and drain him into unconsciousness, but he was pretty sure he whimpered. He might have even cried. He never felt the cold death radiating over his childe's skin afterwards, the reassurance that the cure worked.

"Pillage," Spike told a pale-faced Wesley. "Pillage works sometimes. There's no proof of ownership or any such formality involved, but...its his blood and I can make it mine when he's not willing. Worked for it, I did."

"Spike..."

"Don't worry. He'll come to in a few hours. Just heat 'im up some pig's blood and he'll be like new."

"But he'll-"

"Miss me?" The blue eyed prince looked sadly at his fallen king. "Yeah, he'll miss me. Empty nest. He's home, after all. Baby left."

"But...you were sick. How..?"

"Fever was in me head, Percy. All in me head. Needed him so bad. All the time. Got myself worked up, s'all. And all this mine and yours and whose business just had me spinnin' round in circles till I was loony as Dru." The blonde paused for a moment, looking to the ceiling. "Wonder how she's doing."

"But, Sp-"

"No." The voice was firm and definite, something Wesley had heard little in the past weeks. "Tell him..." William, Will, Precious, S_pike_ - spared another sorrowful glance at his sire. "Tell him he has my love and my blood, but not my life. Tell him I..." Large, scuffed boots walking to the door. "Tell him I'm sorry I couldn't stay for the after sex smoke."

And he walked out. Just like that, he walked out. Found a road and took it somewhere else, because being lost in love was a surefire way to find yourself without shelter in the coming dawn.

* * *

_Fin._


End file.
